


In Session

by FunkyCeili



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-21
Updated: 2017-03-03
Packaged: 2018-09-25 23:48:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 32
Words: 54,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9852479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FunkyCeili/pseuds/FunkyCeili
Summary: Molly receives a menacing package ostensibly from Moriarty, threatening to make Sherlock come undone; Sherlock is in therapy dealing with the emotional fallout; Post 4x3 & "the phone call." Angsty, psychological examination of Sherlock's life and fears of sexual intimacy.





	1. Session #1. Six months after the Events of "The Final Problem," Six Weeks Ago from the Present

**Session #1. Six Months after the Events of "The Final Problem," Six Weeks Ago from the Present**

There are three types of professionals one never likes to shock: psychiatrists, priests, and exterminators. Each professional is generally able to say with real honesty that they've heard and/or seen worse than whatever you're presenting them with. So when Dr. Arthur Doyle assured his latest patient, Sherlock Holmes, that there's nothing that the detective could tell him that he likely hasn't heard before, he had said it with sincerity. But, after listening to Sherlock recount the story that played out several months ago both at Sherrinford Prison and the former Holmes estate but which rightly began over thirty years ago in his repressed childhood, the psychiatrist would have to admit to himself that, while not _the_ worst case of on-going psychological trauma he's ever heard, it was certainly one of the most original and operatic.

Frankly, the whole story beggared belief. And he wouldn't have believed it were not for this patient having been sent to him by his old medical school classmate John Watson and were it not also for the extraordinary public reputation of Holmes himself. After listening to the strangely matter-of-fact retelling of the sad history, Dr. Doyle found himself at first dumbfounded as to where exactly to begin talk therapy with the imposing man sitting across from him.

"Well, um . . . " Doyle struggled for words. "That's quite an extraordinary tale."

"Yes, I suppose it is," the detective said, drawing out the words, cautious.

"So, I feel a little ridiculous asking this, given all you've just told me, but what exactly brings you here today?" Sherlock raised one eyebrow as if the question was indeed a profoundly stupid one. The doctor laughed. "I mean, you said this happened several months ago. What brings you in now?" Doyle asked.

"John is making me."

"Excuse me?"

"John. John Watson."

"Yes, I know who John is. What do you mean he's making you?"

"He says I've been unbearable the last few weeks and I have to see someone or he won't help me with my investigations anymore."

"So am I to understand you're here against your will?"

"Certainly."

At that, Doyle put down his pen and notepad, stood up, and held out his hand. "Well, then, I don't think I can help you, but it was a real pleasure meeting you, Mr. Holmes. My wife loves John's blog."

Sherlock was surprised and flustered. "I don't understand."

"I don't see patients who are being forced into treatment. Not much good can come of that."

"Well, I'm not being forced, exactly." Doyle sat back down and effected a confused look.

"But he issued you an ultimatum, did he not?"

"Yes, but, it's not like he's really going to go through with it. It's a bluff."

"I see. So, if it's a bluff, why come at all? Why not just call his bluff?"

"Ummm, well, I respect John and . . . "

"Let's cut the crap, Mr. Holmes." Sherlock sat back in his chair, annoyed, and looked the doctor straight in the eyes. "Are you here for John or for yourself?"

Sherlock grumbled, "Both, I suppose."

"Better. That I can work with." Doyle smiled but Sherlock didn't return the smile, still annoyed. "So, you say that John believes you've been unbearable the last few weeks. What do you think he means by that?"

"You'd have to ask him."

"I'm asking you. Do you think you've been unbearable?"

"I can't say."

"Well, do you think your mood has changed at all recently?"

"Mood constantly changes. That's why they are moods and not a disposition or one's character more generally, which are more constant over time and . . . "

"Mr. Holmes, may I call you Sherlock?" The detective nodded his assent. "Sherlock, you're obviously a brilliant man. I'm not going to dispute that, but if you're going to be evasive and/or try to intellectualize every answer, then this is going to be a very cumbersome process for both of us."

Sherlock clearly registered what the doctor was saying. "I'm not good at this."

"I take it you haven't had much practice at sharing your feelings."

"No, I suppose not."

"But that's what can be so helpful about trying to communicate your feelings in this setting. I'm nothing to you. I'm not one of your family members. I'm not one of your friends. I'm not a colleague or a client. You'll likely never see me outside this office. Nothing you say will ever leave this room. You don't have to impress me, get me like you, or respect you. All that I want from you is for you to feel better and make better choices for your life. So this is a good place to get that practice in a way that doesn't risk anything on the outside world."

"Yes, all that makes perfect sense, of course."

"But?"

"It's just difficult," Sherlock confessed.

"Of course it is. I'm not asking you to become to the model patient overnight. I just want you to try. Can you do that?"

"I suppose so."

"Ok, good. That's all I ask. So, going back to an earlier question: do you think your mood has been noticeably worse recently?"

"Maybe. Yes, I think maybe it has."

"Ok, in what way? How would you characterize your mood?"

"Anxious, I suppose. Agitated at times. Perhaps a little more prone to anger than usual," Sherlock said, fidgeting.

"How do you think that's manifested itself in your outward behavior?"

"There are not new behaviors, _per se_ , I don't think, just more, how shall we say, extreme versions of behaviors I have already had a tendency to manifest."

"Could you give me an example?"

"Umm, well, when I get frustrated, I'm known to, um, stab at things—with a knife."

"At things?"

"Letters, pieces of evidence, photographs. Things of that nature."

"And that's something you've done before."

"All the time."

"And has that changed?"

"I suppose I was in a bit of a rant one day about six weeks ago or so over some difficulty or another and I went to stab a police report sitting on my mantel and I didn't notice DI Lestrade was resting his hand just there. I grazed him slightly by accident."

"DI Lestrade?"

"He's a Scotland Yard detective I frequently work with."

"Was he alright?"

"Oh, yes, perfectly fine. Just hit the webbing between his thumb and forefinger. John stitched him up right in the flat."

"And he didn't press charges against you?"

"No, of course not. He knew it was an accident. He had some rather colorful language for me, but he understood that I hadn't meant any harm. John was angrier about it than he was."

"You're lucky. The situation could have been much, much worse." After a pause, Doyle continued, "Do you remember what you and Detective Lestrade were talking about before you stabbed him?"

"I didn't stab him. I stabbed the mantel. His hand was just in between the knife and the mantel."

"Nonetheless, do you remember what you and he were discussing before you stabbed at the mantel?"

Sherlock made an unconvincing face, trying to look like he couldn't quite remember. "Oh, just an on-going case that never quite seems resolved."

"Remember, whatever you say in here is confidential. I've had members of law enforcement discuss cases before."

"It's really not important."

"Well, it frustrated you enough to stab someone, albeit accidentally, so why don't you just give me an idea about what is so difficult about the case."

"It concerns James Moriarty."

"Ah, yes, Moriarty. Didn't _The Daily Mail_ dub him 'The Bin Laden of Crime'? Isn't he supposed to be dead? You witnessed his suicide yourself didn't you?"

"Yes, he is dead. But that doesn't stop him from ruining lives and terrorizing innocent people, does it?"

"Excuse me?"

"He may have planned for actions after his death, with the help of accomplices or even a protege. Or perhaps someone is just using his name for their own purposes."

"All I myself witnessed was the interrupted broadcast messages," Doyle said. "Has he, or rather someone claiming to be him, been committing other crimes?"

"Crimes, no, but he's made himself known and has been terrorizing someone, a friend."

"John?"

"No, not John, someone else."

"Oh, John's the only friend you've mentioned so far. Who is this friend? The one being targeted?"

Here Sherlock appeared visibly ill at ease. "Um, the chief pathologist at St. Bartholomew's Hospital."

Dr. Doyle thought for moment and then said, "Molly? Do you mean Dr. Molly Hooper?"

Sherlock looked surprised at the psychiatrist. "You know Molly?"

"Not well, really. I consult at St. Bart's and I've had occasions when the question of whether a death was a suicide or murder was an issue. I'd look into the psychiatric history and she'd do the autopsy. She's extraordinarily good at her job."

"She's the best at her job."

"I agree. Oh no, I do like Dr. Hooper. How is she being terrorized?"

"She received a package ostensibly from Moriarty."

"What was in it?"

"That I cannot divulge. That would violate her privacy."

"Yes, sure, of course. Well, I do hope she'll be alright. In addition to being most competent at her job, she's a really lovely person."

"Yes," Sherlock said sadly.

"So, you and she are friends then?"

"We used to be."

"But not anymore?"

"No, not really, I fear."

"Why?"

"I can't talk about that."

"Can't? Or won't?"

Sherlock looks at his watch, gets up to leave, and says, with satisfaction, "Time's up. Have to go fight crime."

"Yes, fine, but I want to pick up here next week." But Dr. Doyle wasn't sure Sherlock heard him as he flew out of the door.


	2. Twelve Weeks Ago. St. Bart's Pathology Lab

**Twelve Weeks Ago. St. Bart's Pathology Lab**

Molly had been about to take a mid-morning break for some tea when one of her fellow pathologists came into the lab bearing a large package. When the male pathologist entered, Molly didn't notice him at first because she had headphones on and was looking through a microscope. So, when he tapped her on the shoulder, she jumped back a couple of feet in fright.

"I'm so sorry, Molly. I didn't mean to frighten you," he said.

Taking her headphones off, Molly smiled and said, "Oh, it's not your fault, Peter. I was in my own little world."

"Ah yeah, well. This came in for you this morning," Peter said, putting the package down next to the microscope in front of Molly.

"Equipment?"

"It says 'Personal,' so no one opened it up. Henrietta really, really wanted to, but I took it before she was able to 'accidentally' open it up."

"I appreciate that," Molly said, laughing.

"You up for tea?"

"Sure. I'll be along in a few minutes." With that, Peter smiled at her and left the lab. Molly examined the package. It did indeed read: "PRIVATE. TO BE OPENED ONLY BY DR. MOLLY HOOPER." She then looked at the return address: James Expraeteriti from somewhere in Cambridgeshire. She read the name and address out-loud to herself. Neither meant anything to her, so she proceeded to open the parcel.

She smiled confusedly at the fine perfumed scent coming from the box and the puffed-up pink frilly paper lining the box, both of which were wildly incongruent with their surroundings in the cold, sterile lab. She picked up the notecard on top of all the frilly paper and turned it over to read it.

"Dearest Molly,

Just thinking of our short time together.

Maybe we can make new memories.

Jim, from IT

XOXO."

She dropped the card back into the box as if it were on fire and flew backwards into the table behind her, trying desperately to get away from the package, hurting her back in the process. She then ran out of the lab clutching her mobile phone. As soon as she was out of the lab, she furiously texted the only man she trusted to help her now: DI Greg Lestrade.

* * *

Within ten minutes, the bomb squad arrived at St. Bart's along with a chemical weapons detection unit. It took over an hour to determine that the contents of the box were neither explosive nor poisonous and posed no existential threat to anyone at the hospital. Once the two units declared both the lab and the package safe, Lestrade, several of his Detective Sergeants, and Molly came back in.

Once inside, Molly turned to Lestrade and said, "I suppose we should let forensics catalog and examine the contents."

"Well, before they are let loose on it, I have to call Sherlock," said Lestrade, taking out his mobile phone for exactly that purpose.

"What? Why? Why does he need to be involved?" Molly was panicking.

"Molly, this involves Moriarty. Any incident possibly connected at all with Moriarty must be reported to Sherlock. Those are orders from the highest places in the British government."

"Moriarty is dead. I examined his corpse myself."

"Regardless, dead or not, if anything even remotely connects to Moriarty, I have strict orders to call Sherlock. And even if I didn't have those orders, I'd call him anyway because he knows more about Moriarty and his criminal enterprises than anyone else alive."

"Please, Greg, don't call him. Say it was a hoax, anything, just keep him out of it."

Lestrade was thoroughly confused as to Molly's unwillingness to involve Sherlock Holmes. The three of them, four including John Watson, had worked innumerable cases together. He rather considered them a team, so he was quite disconcerted to see Molly so unraveled by the great consulting detective's potential presence in the case.

"Molly, where is this coming from? Why are you so hellbent on not including Sherlock?"

Molly's frustration grew because she knew she couldn't tell Greg the full reason for her not wanting Sherlock on the case and, furthermore, because she knew nothing she could say would convince him not to call Sherlock. He was indeed under orders, likely from Mycroft Holmes himself.

She paced back and forth angrily a few times before throwing her hands up in defeat. "Fine. Do what you have to do."

* * *

Sherlock had arrived at St. Bart's in only fifteen minutes, a feat that involved coaxing the taxi driver into several illegal actions for which he was compensated by Sherlock with an exorbitant three hundred pounds. On top of the dangerous driving, Sherlock ran his own personal best from the street to the lab, arriving dangerously out of breath. Apparently years of terrible diet and occasional binge drug use had not done many favors to his cardiovascular health.

When Lestrade saw Sherlock breathless and heaving, he wondered aloud, "Sherlock, did you run all the way here?"

Sherlock didn't answer him but instead walked briskly toward Molly and attempted to pull her into a hug. Molly shrank back from him, which he should have expected, but somehow the action still hurt him deeply.

After all, they hadn't really spoken since that damned phone call from Sherrinford. He knew that he and he alone was to blame for her coldness now. That night after returning from the ruins of Musgrove Hall, he should have been the one to go to Molly to explain the circumstances surrounding what must have seemed to her the cruelest game he'd played with her yet. Instead, he'd let it up to, first Mycroft and then John, to do the explaining. In the intervening months, he forgot the contorted rationalizations he made at the time to justify his decision, but he'd somehow convinced himself that they would be able to set things right with Molly, make things go back to the way they were before Euros's cruelty had humiliated Molly and completely fucked with Sherlock's whole system of self-containment.

He had thought the recipe for normality, or what passed for normality in this strange world of his, would be giving Molly some healthy space for a few days and then going back into their friendship and working relationship as if nothing had ever happened, as if nothing had changed, as if no phone call had ever taken place. _Tabula rasa_. Surely, he had thought at the time, that would yield the best results, the best results being a turning back of the clock to before that damnable call.

As usual when it came to other people's feelings, Sherlock was wrong. After a week of giving Molly the space he thought she needed, he went to St. Bart's one day, determined to ignore the events of one week previous and to just get on with being the way they were.

What a fucking disaster, he remembered now. He walked into the lab evincing the same "devil may care" attitude he always tried to effect, but all that stopped abruptly upon seeing the look on Molly's face at the sight of him. Her complexion went instantly ashen. She looked like she was going to be sick, Sherlock thought. It's the shock, nothing more, he tried to reason with himself. She'll be fine in a moment. But that moment came and went and the ashen, sickly look was replaced with a look of burning hatred.

"Sherlock, please leave," she said through gritted teeth. Somehow, he hadn't weighed the possibility of such a reaction from Molly. So stupid . . . you're so stupid when it comes to people, Sherlock thought to himself.

"Molly, I know that . . . "

Molly came around the metal lab table that sat between herself and Sherlock and came within a foot of where he stood. She didn't flinch when she looked up at him and said, "You _know_? You _know_ what, Sherlock?"

"I . . . I . . . " Sherlock sputtered, having never seen Molly so angry before, not even when she thrice slapped him for being strung out on drugs. " . . . I know that what happened was, um . . . " He stopped, unable to find the word he wanted to use, finally settling on "regrettable."

Molly nodded and laughed, but without real mirth. " _Regrettable_? Really?"

"Did Mycroft and John explain the full context behind . . . "

She interrupted him, "Oh, yes, yes, they explained everything Sherlock. It was quite a tag-team operation, both of them doing their duties like good little soldiers. No questions were left unanswered except one." Sherlock raised one eyebrow. "Where were you, Sherlock? _Where were you?_ " Molly's voice cracked as she finished her reproach.

Sherlock swallowed, uncomfortable. "Molly, I . . . "

"It's too late, Sherlock. I wanted to hear from you then. Not now. And I don't want to hear from you now or ever again. Do you hear me Sherlock? Do you understand? Nod if you understand."

He had nothing to do but nod because, if he had tried to speak at that moment, his voice too would have cracked, himself dangerously on the edge of breaking down.

"I've ordered one of my top pathologists to work with you on Yard-related cases. It's Peter Murphy. He's the only one that will do it. You can work with him in one of the other labs. But one place you are never welcome again is this lab. Do you understand?" He again nodded weakly. "Good, then please leave."

By the time he reached the street in front of St. Bart's, he had to sit down on a bench because he was hyperventilating.

* * *

Four and a half months had passed in a blur of activity for Sherlock Holmes. There were occasional times when he and Molly would be forced to cross paths, as when, for example, she would be visiting John and his daughter. They would be coldly cordial to one another, all the while Sherlock hoping that, as the cliché promised, time would heal all wounds. As his arrival at St. Bart's and his thwarted attempt to comfort Molly at the discovery of this mystery package proved, however, Molly's wounds appeared to be still quite raw and exposed.

Lestrade, now painfully made aware by the scene before him that something was indeed amiss between the detective and the pathologist, handed Sherlock the gloves necessary to examine the contents of the package and then put a pair on himself. As Sherlock put them on and walked toward the box, he never let his gaze leave Molly's defiant and angry eyes.

"Why don't you leave this to us, Molly? We'll take care of it," Lestrade said.

"No, I'm staying. It was addressed to me. I have a right to see what's in there."

"It's against policy for the recipient to . . . "

"You bend policy all the time for Sherlock. Can I not be given the same courtesy?" Lestrade relented, a decision he would soon regret.

Sherlock first examined the return address on the outside of the package. "James Expraeteriti," Sherlock read aloud. "Latin. James from the past. Cute."

"We looked up the address," Lestrade said. "It's a flat near Cambridge University, rented mostly by students. We don't know if it's just an address of convenience or if . . . "

"That's where I lived during my graduate work," Sherlock offered, looking up at Molly, who just shook her head in annoyance.

"Oh, I see" is all Lestrade could say as he wrote down everything Sherlock said.

Sherlock proceeded to open the box and read the card. He then inhaled deeply. "Giovanni Castille's #1 Hide-Away. $5000 an ounce."

"Holy hell," Lestrade offered.

Sherlock peeled back the frilly paper and started to blush. He pulled out a barely opaque lacy black nightie. Lestrade cleared his throat. Molly looked away, blushing herself.

Clearing his own throat, Sherlock said, "One black nightie." He pulled the next item out—a pair of red thong panties—and handed them uncomfortably to Lestrade, announcing under his breath "One red thong." Each item removed seemed designed for maximum discomfort, Sherlock thought, trying his best to remain stoic and professional as he dug deeper into the box. At the third item, he lost the ability to make his mouth move. "A bus . . . a bus . . um, a . . . "

"A red bustier," Lestrade said, helping put Sherlock out of his misery. Neither of them looked in Molly's direction and Molly, for her part, was in her own level of Hell, leaning against the far wall of the lab, her head pointed downward and her whole body awash in a bright reddish hue.

"All three pieces of lingerie appear to be in Dr. Hooper's size," Sherlock sputtered out, without looking up. Lestrade cocked his head, wondering how Sherlock could know that.

Next, Sherlock fished out a tube of KY Jelly and a particularly intimidating-looking vibrator. He and Lestrade did their best to hide their obvious discomfort. Both of them failed spectacularly. There were only three more items in the box, for which Sherlock thanked whatever powers that be in this cruel universe. But more cruelty awaited.

"What appears to be a first edition of the Marquis de Sade's _120 Days of Sodom_." Sherlock handed this item to Lestrade, who dutifully logged it in. "A pair of handcuffs," Sherlock said, while giving them to Lestrade. The very last item in the box was a thick envelope. Sherlock picked it up and felt it. Taking it out of the box, he opened the envelope to reveal about a dozen photographs. He began to take the photos out of the envelope to examine them when Molly let out of a sharp cry of "No."

Both Sherlock and Lestrade were shocked into looking up, having avoided looking at each other or Molly throughout the whole of the examination of the package.

"No, please don't. Let me see them first," Molly begged Sherlock, with her hands outstretched.

"Molly, I don't think that's a good . . . " Sherlock began.

"I don't know what they are, Sherlock, but I deserve the chance to look at them first. They were mailed to me."

"Molly," Greg came around to stand between them. "You know procedure. We have to look at them and catalog them. We are breaking the rules just letting you be in here with us."

"Please, I'm begging you, Greg." Then she appealed directly to Sherlock. "Please, Sherlock. I . . . I'm afraid of what's in those photographs. Please I can't have you looking at them if it's what I think . . . Sherlock? Just let me look. Please." She was crying.

Sherlock handed the photographs to Molly. He didn't even think about it.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade yelled at him and threw his hands up in the air, exasperated.

Molly had taken the envelope with a shaking hand, slowly opened it, and, with a sense of dread written on every feature on her face, looked at the first photo. Instantly, she broke down into a sob and collapsed on the floor of lab.

Sherlock went over to where she lay quivering on the ground and ripped the photographs from her hand without looking at them.

"Sherlock, no!" Molly yelled through her sobs. But Sherlock continued back toward the table with the photos in hand, never looking at them. Lestrade picked up his pen and notebook, ready to catalog the final, horrible items from the package. Instead, Sherlock turned on the Bensen Burner and proceeded to set the photographs ablaze before Lestrade even knew what the detective was doing.

"What the fuck are you doing? That's evidence," Lestrade yelled at Sherlock.

"No, this is wanton cruelty."

"What you've done is illegal."

"So, arrest me."

"God-damn it, Sherlock. What am I supposed to do now? What am I supposed to say to my superiors?"

"That there were seven items in the box and that you dutifully cataloged them all."

"Oh, Jesus Christ, Sherlock." But Sherlock knew from the look on Greg Lestrade's face that he would do as Sherlock asked.


	3. Session #2. Five Weeks Ago

**Session #2. Five Weeks Ago**

One of the marks of a good psychiatrist is the knowing when to deploy silence. If the patient will not talk, sometimes Dr. Doyle finds it helpful, instead of asking questions, to allow him to stew in his own thoughts. Most often, the patient finds himself unable to stand it and begins conversing with more effort and honesty than before the long silence. The problem with treating Sherlock Holmes was two-fold for Doyle: not only was Sherlock Holmes extensively educated in psychology and thus able to foresee the tactic being deployed against him, but he also was entirely comfortable using the usually discomfiting quiet to instead "deduce" the psychiatrist himself.

His most clever deduction, Sherlock thought to himself, was that the good Dr. Doyle's wife no longer loved him. This he had deduced from the photographs on the doctor's wall, the clothes he wore, and, most importantly, the cartoons taped to his filing cabinet.

Doyle wore expensive, well-made, and well-tailored clothes, yet his expensive tie, his socks, his accessories—all top quality—did not exactly match. From the degree to which all the colors clashed subtly, Sherlock deduced that the man was red-green colorblind. Yet, all of the photographs on his desk and wall, taken several years ago, show a man well-dressed and well-coordinated, vain even. That, combined with the lack of color coordination both this week and at the last session suggested that the wife no longer cared whether he clashed or not. She simply didn't dress him any more.

Even more telling, to Sherlock, were the cartoon cut-outs littering the side of his filing cabinet. Some of them were so old that the print had faded and could hardly be read. They seemed to span regular intervals dating back fifteen years or more. All them featured some kind of psychiatric humor. One in particular had the image of a psychiatrist talking to a patient. Written down on the doctor's notepad are the words "just plain nuts." Some of the cartoons have the same woman's writing underneath, with some kind of inscription.

But the cartoons, so regular for so long, stopped abruptly within the last few years. Sherlock wonders if his psychiatrist is able to diagnose his own disintegrating marriage to the same degree he thinks he sees the inner life of his patients. Probably not, Sherlock thinks and smirks triumphantly to himself.

"Is something funny?"

"Not in the least, really."

"What were you thinking about just now?"

"Entropy."

"Entropy?"

"The transfer of energy from . . . "

"I know what entropy is, Sherlock. What is it about entropy that you are thinking about in particular?"

"Just the amount of energy that has to go into any system for it to remain stable."

"For example?"

"A bath."

"A bath?"

"Yes, think about how hard it is to enjoy a long bath. At first, it's nice and hot, quite relaxing."

"Yes."

"But it doesn't take long for the bath to grow cold, so you pump more hot water into it to make it warm again. But soon enough it grows cold once more. And it soon becomes a losing effort to regain the heat and the initial enjoyment of the bath as you attempt over and over again to add more hot water but with less effective results. Eventually, the bath water does what it is meant to do and which all things do: return, forever and always, to room temperature."

"That's bleak."

"That's reality," Sherlock said, coldly.

"Well, you could always take a shower." Both men laughed. "So, do you feel this way about all human endeavors?"

"More or less."

"So do you want to talk about 'the more' or 'the less'?"

"Pardon?"

"Do you think some human endeavors are more or less prone to this kind of destruction?"

"Yes, I suppose so."

"Which ones do you think are more prone to entropy?"

"Romantic attachments I should think."

"Why do you think that?"

"The evidence of it is everywhere. Everywhere you look you see the cold remnants of what were once passionate, hot attachments. The world is full of the walking, talking examples of entropy," Sherlock offered, thinking potentially of Doyle's own marriage.

"Hmmmm."

"You disagree?"

"No, not necessarily. I certainly see your point. Most relationships do indeed end. To use your scientific language, each new relationship is an experiment. Our atoms bombard each other to see if some new molecule can come into being. Most experiments will fail, ultimately, but you just need for the experiment to succeed but once." Sherlock chuckled to himself. "You don't agree?"

"I think people fool themselves into thinking the experiment has succeeded, but, in time, the bathwater will run cold no matter what, the atoms will wrest themselves apart, the molecule will divide, etc., etc., etc."

"You speak from experience?"

"No, from observation."

"Does that describe your parents?"

"No, they are an excellent example of the right neuroses finding their perfect complimentary object."

"So they are exempt from your theory? What about your own relationships?"

"Friendships have their own chemistry, although they too can fall to the laws of entropy."

"I meant your romantic relationships."

"I haven't any."

"Ok, but what about ones you've had in the past?"

"I told you, I haven't had any."

"Ever?"

"Never."

"Oh, ok. So, am I to understand, um . . . "

"No, I've never had sex, if that's what you're about to ask."

"I see. Have you ever felt sexual attraction toward someone?"

"Certainly."

"Ok, and when you've experienced that sexual attraction, do you ever get aroused, that is, get an erection?"

"Yes."

"Do you do anything about it?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes, as if not understanding. "Do you masturbate?" The doctor clarified.

"Yes, sometimes."

"Ok. Are you attracted to women or men or both?"

"Just women."

"Ok. Have you had any sexual contact at all with a woman?"

"I hardly see the relevance of this."

"You don't? Really, Sherlock? I know you know quite a bit about psychology, criminal and otherwise. From your own observations and education, you don't see the relevance of someone's sexual attitudes and experiences upon their mental state?"

"But that's exactly what I've tried to avoid my entire life, the sexual and romantic entanglements that ensnare and destroy great minds and lay waste to their vast potentiality."

"Well then, you clearly don't have any issues about sex we need to explore, do you?" Even Sherlock laughed at that. "We're almost out of time for today," the doctor announced, "but I do want to pick up here where we left off next time. But, before you go, I wanted to ask how Molly Hooper is."

"She's . . . safe."

"Good. That's good. I did want to get back to what you said last week about no longer being friends with her. You said you couldn't talk about it or wouldn't talk about it."

"Yes, and I still can't and won't."

"I see. Sherlock," Dr. Doyle said, leaning in toward him, "this process can only be as successful as you let it be. Redacting large swaths of your life ultimately undermines the work we must do. I'd like you to think about what keeps you from talking candidly to me and decide whether you can be a full participant in therapy or not."

Sherlock nodded reluctantly.

"Same time next week, Sherlock?"


	4. Twelve Weeks Ago: St. Bart's Pathology Lab

**Twelve Weeks Ago: St. Bart's Pathology Lab**

The photographs were still burning when Molly stood up and crossed to where Sherlock stood in front of the Bunsen Burner. She looked unsteadily at him and, with a soft voice, said, "Thank you, Sherlock."

He desperately wanted to touch her, to caress her cheek, to pull her in at last for the hug he's wanted to give her since the phone call, to feel her head buried in his chest. But he lacked the courage to do anything but stand there, impotent to do anything at all.

"What do we do now?" Lestrade asked, breaking up the awkward moment.

"Give the list of items in the box to the forensic unit. I'll start working soon on analyzing the items for trace evidence. Tonight, I'll contact Mycroft and tell him to put 24-7 Secret Service surveillance on Molly."

"Sherlock, that's not . . . " Molly began, but Sherlock hushed her and turned to face her.

"Molly, we'll stop by your flat tonight and pick up what you need in an overnight bag. You're coming back to Baker Street."

"No, Sherlock, I'm not."

Sherlock ignored her. "Tomorrow you can go back to your flat and get more of what you need for an extended stay."

"Extended stay? Where?"

"At Baker Street, of course. Until this is all over, you'll be living there."

"Absolutely not. I'm not going and you can't make me."

"You have two choices. Live at 221B for the duration of this case or I'll have Mycroft forcibly take you to a safehouse somewhere in the hinterlands of Scotland. Which will it be?"

"Neither. I am staying at my own flat, Sherlock."

Now was Sherlock's turn to be angry with Molly. "Molly! You do not have a say in this."

"The Hell I don't; it's my life."

Greg Lestrade felt the need to step between them and intervene before it turned into a shouting match. "Alright, alright. Look, emotions are raw right now. Every one of us is on edge and not in the right frame of mind to make lasting decisions." He turned to Molly. "Molly, I understand you wanting to maintain your liberty and independence here." Molly appeared to want to interrupt Lestrade, but he waved a hand to silence her. "We'll compromise for tonight, ok? Come back to my house for tonight only and we'll talk about more long-term plans tomorrow. Ok?" Then he turned to Sherlock. "Ok?"

"Absolutely not. Not acceptable," Sherlock said.

"Sherlock," Lestrade said, annoyed, "let's try to work with Molly here on a compromise."

"No compromise," Sherlock said, unmoved.

"Molly, would coming back to my house for tonight be alright with you?" Molly appeared to waver but ultimately nodded her consent. "Good, you see, Sherlock, we can compromise. Molly will be safe with me tonight."

"No."

Lestrade took Sherlock by the shoulder and led him away from Molly for a private discussion. Whispering, he said, "Sherlock, work with me here. Do we really need to antagonize Molly right now? Do you really think I'd let anything happen to her? I don't know what's been going on between you two lately but you seemed to have banked some good will by burning those fucking photographs. I imagine she's feeling very vulnerable right now, so giving her some sense of control, some sense of being listened to is important. We need her to be cooperative in this investigation, especially since only she knows what was on those photographs. It's just for tonight, Sherlock. Just one night."

Sherlock softened and whispered back at Lestrade, "Just tonight. Tomorrow, once she's calmer, she comes to Baker Street or she's whisked away to the Outer Hebrides." Lestrade let out a breath. Victories came but rarely with Sherlock, especially when he was in a mood like this.

Lestrade turned back to Molly and, in a normal speaking volume, said, "Molly? We can go to your flat and get some things you need. And I apologize in advance for the state of my house. Being a bachelor now after all these years, well, you know . . . "

"I'm sure it'll be fine for one night, Greg."

"Yeah, absolutely. Hardly any feral animals running about." That got Molly to laugh. "Come on, now." Lestrade stretched out his arm, clearly intending for it to go around Molly's shoulder. To Sherlock's disappointment, Molly allowed the arm to encircle her and they walked out of the lab like that. Part of Sherlock selfishly wanted to rip that arm right off her shoulder. That's where _my_ arm should be, he thought bitterly.

* * *

On the short drive over to Molly's flat in Lestrade's vehicle, Sherlock, sitting in the back with Molly, called his brother, informing him about the day's events and demanding that Molly be provided security. Mycroft consented and said that a detail would be in place starting this evening. Mycroft had a million more questions, but Sherlock begged off answering them off until the morning. Uncharacteristically, Mycroft went easy on his brother and instead sounded downright gentle with him before hanging up. "Brother," he said, "no harm will come to her. I promise. I know what she means to you." Sherlock pretended not to have heard the final sentence. When he went to put the phone back into his pocket, he noticed Molly's hand sitting on the seat in the area between them. He had the sudden irrational urge to place his hand on top of hers, but resisted the impulse.

Upon arrival at Molly's flat, Sherlock raced ahead into it, using his key. He ran about the flat making sure nothing seemed out of place and that no one lurked in its shadows. Lestrade came in, followed by Molly.

"He has a key?" Lestrade asked Molly.

Molly just shrugged. "Yeah, keeps him from picking the lock."

"All clear," Sherlock announced. Molly walked wearily to her bedroom and started the process of gathering items for an overnight bag. Lestrade went to sit down on Molly's sofa, but Sherlock kept standing in the entrance-way, pacing. "Excuse me, Greg. I have to have a word with Molly."

Lestrade stood suddenly and crossed to Sherlock. "Leave her alone for now. Don't antagonize her."

"I won't, I promise. I just need to ask her a few questions and I think . . . "

"I really don't think this is the right time for that."

"There's never going to be a right time. I'll be cautious, really, I promise."

Lestrade did not think this was a good idea, but just shook his head and sat back down on the sofa.

Sherlock walked back to Molly's bedroom, a room he'd slept in dozens of times when he'd needed a bolthole. Upon seeing the familiar set-up, he had a pang of guilt, remembering how he had accepted the bedroom, the sole bedroom, while Molly slept on the sofa. He had rationalized accepting it based on the fact that her tiny frame fit the sofa more comfortably than his large one did. What a selfish prick you are, he thought.

He closed the door to the bedroom, giving Molly a start. "Oh, I'm almost done, I just need a few toiletries from the bathroom and I'm ready," she said.

"Sit down, Molly." She looked wary of whatever he was about to say but remained standing. With a big intake of breath to steel his nerves, Sherlock continued, "We need to talk about the items that were in that box."

With that, all the wind seemed to be knocked out of her and she finally sat down on the edge of the bed, looking exhausted. "Can we please not do this?"

He crossed to her and sat down next to her on the bed. "I think you know I'd gladly forgo this conversation if I could. I'd burn the entire contents of that damnable box and bury it in salted earth, but someone sent that box for a reason and I have to find out who and why and what it portends."

"I know," Molly said softly, the tears now streaming down her face. "What do you need to know?"

"Do those specific items mean anything to you?"

"Not all of them."

"Which ones, besides the photographs?"

"Ummm, the lingerie. They look like things I already have, _exactly_ like things I have."

"I see. I'll have to have them for purposes of comparison."

"Of course you do," she said, in abject misery.

"Do any of the other items have any meaning?"

"I've never used handcuffs and I don't own nor have I ever read that book."

"Ok, um, that leaves the, um . . . "

"And, uh, KY is not the brand of lubrication I generally use, if I'm using it." She was hugging herself in humiliation.

"And the vibrator?" Sherlock did his best to sound matter-of-fact.

"Sure, why not? I have no dignity left here. Yes, it looks like the model I use."

Sherlock wanted to end this misery, but he knew he had to get this all over as soon as possible, like ripping off a band-aid, except that instead of a band-aid that pulled off hair and skin it also ripped out all semblance of one's dignity. "I'll have to have that, as well." He flinched saying it.

She just shook her head and let down a laugh that said "I'm dying here."

"Yes, it's under the mattress. The lingerie is in a box at the bottom of the closet." Sherlock nodded. "Now I suppose you need to know about the photos?"

"Yes, yes, I do," Sherlock croaked.

She nodded sadly. "Tom wanted to take some pictures. I wasn't keen to do it, but he was _so_ into it. I didn't . . . I didn't say no. It was just that one night. He wanted to do it again, but I said no. He promised me he deleted the photos and I believed him. God, I'm such a fucking idiot." She started sobbing into her hands.

Sherlock got up from the bed and knelt down in front of her. "No, you're not. You have absolutely nothing to be ashamed of—in any of this. He violated _your_ trust. He is the prick here and he should be the one who is ashamed, not you. Not you!" She turned away from him, clearly not accepting his words, so he placed his hands on either side of her head and made her look directly at him. "Listen to me, Molly." As his hands lingered on the sides of her face, each of them started breathing more heavily and Sherlock wasn't so daft that he didn't recognize the physiological reality of what was happening in that moment. He wanted desperately to kiss her and believed that she wanted to be kissed.

In the weeks that followed, his failure to do what the moment called for haunted him.

But he couldn't do it. Something stopped him. He briskly got up, left the room, and, on the way out of the flat, called to Lestrade: "Take her home, Greg. I'll be in touch in the morning."

By the time he'd reached the street in front of Molly's flat, he was once again hyperventilating.


	5. Eleven Weeks and Six Days Ago. Somewhere in Chelsea

**Eleven Weeks and Six Days Ago. Somewhere in Chelsea.**

It had taken Sherlock just a few minutes after leaving Molly's flat to track down where Molly's ex-fiance Tom lived. But he knew he couldn't go directly there. In the mood he'd been in when he left Molly in that bedroom, he knew that, if he saw Tom right then, he'd kill him. No question. He'd kill him. So he'd had to calm down. He could be of no help to Molly in prison for murder or, more likely, exiled forever from England.

So, from the hours between leaving Molly's flat and the appointed hour early the next morning when he planned to confront that piece of shit, he did precisely what he knew he mustn't do: he got high.

But, it was the worst high he'd ever had. Not a high at all, but a crashing down into complete misery and a level of anger that no drug could lift him out of. His plan to try drug-induced oblivion to calm himself down backfired spectacularly. Thus, at four in the morning, he found himself outside Tom's home.

For a long time, he stood staring at the front door, trying to control his breathing—when he could finally take it no more.

He ran up to the front door and started intermittently both pounding on the door and pressing the doorbell incessantly until a light came on from inside the house and he heard the angry grumbling of the man inside. "Who the fuck is out there? Do you know what time it is?"

Apparently, Tom looked through the peep-hole and, wrongly determining that Sherlock posed no existential threat to him, opened the door, yelling obscenities at the detective. As the door opened, Sherlock kicked violently at it, the door hitting Tom in the face, sending him flying backwards and breaking his nose. Sherlock rushed in, grabbed the man by the lapels of his pajamas and punched him about the head, careful not to cause unconsciousness, needing him awake and able to speak for the next few minutes.

Tom tried a little to fight back, but the combination of Sherlock's surprise attack and the drug and anger-fueled strength the detective possessed left him largely defenseless. Sherlock kicked at Tom's midsection several times before lifting him up and dragging him to a chair in the dining room. Sherlock handcuffed him and hit him several more times in his torso.

Through his bloodied mouth, Tom spit out the words, "What? Why are you doing this?"

"For Molly."

"She dumped me, man. I didn't do anything to her." At that, Sherlock punched him in the kidneys. Tom screamed out in pain.

"What did you do with the pictures?"

"What pictures?" Another punch, another cry of pain.

"The pictures of Molly. Think Tom. Think." Sherlock saw the look of recognition pass on the other man's face.

"I erased them."

"Wrong answer, Tom." Another punch, another cry.

"Ok, ok. They're in there," he said, motioning to his living room, "on my laptop."

"Who did you send them to?"

Tom looked down guiltily, but said nothing. Sherlock pulled his arm back, readying for another blow when Tom begged, "Please, please . . . I sent them to a few friends from Uni, that's all."

Sherlock lifted Tom violently from his dining room chair and dragged him into the living room to where his laptop sat. Sherlock held on to him and spoke only inches from his face. "Are there other copies besides the ones on your laptop?"

"No," he pleaded. "They're all on there."

"You better not be lying, Tom. It'll be very bad for you if you're lying."

"I'm not lying; I'm telling you the truth."

"Ok, Tom," Sherlock said, getting out a pen and a piece of paper and removing the handcuffs from Tom's wrists, "you're going to write down the names of every one of the scumbags you sent the pictures to." Sherlock let him go and handed him the pen and paper. Tom leaned over the desk and wrote with a very shaky hand, dripping blood onto the paper. He gave them both back to Sherlock, who then proceeded to violently impale Tom's hand with the pen. In the next second, over Tom's screams, Sherlock heard the approaching sirens of police cars. He grabbed Tom's laptop and bent over the crying man. "I wouldn't name me if I were you, Tom. It will be very bad for you if you name me."

Sherlock ran out of the back of the house, leaving Tom a bloody mess, but alive, which was, to Sherlock's mind, a gift.

* * *

Sherlock's felt his head pounding furiously in pain at the sound of John Watson pounding with equal ferocity at the front door of his flat. He made his way wearily to the origin of the noise and opened the door for his friend, who brushed past him into the flat in a huff of anger.

"Why do I have to hear from Greg Lestrade and not you that Molly received a package saying it was from Moriarty?"

"Good morning, John."

"Don't 'good morning' me, what's going on?"

"Oh, you know, the game is on."

"Don't be glib about this. This is Molly." As Sherlock collapsed into his usual chair, John noticed his friend had numerous nasty bruises all over his knuckles. "What happened there?" He said, pointing to Sherlock's hands.

"I fell." John huffed annoyance at his friend's evasiveness and was about to continue questioning him about it when DI Lestrade walked up to the flat's landing and waved.

"Morning Sherlock, John," Lestrade said.

At the sight of him, Sherlock stood, bearing his anger. "Where is Molly? You're supposed to be protecting her."

"Easy Sherlock. She's at her lab in St. Bart's. Three of Mycroft's men are following her everywhere she goes. She'll be fine. It's the damnedest thing though," Lestrade said, pulling out a police report, "would you believe that early this morning the Chelsea Constabulary took a report of one Thomas Orley having being the victim of a break-in and severe beating by an unknown assailant?"

"Oh really?" Sherlock tried to evince nonchalance.

"And the strange thing is that he says he can't describe his attacker at all, says he was wearing a mask. All he can say is that the attacker was short, which is interesting because two witnesses say they saw a rather tall man fleeing out of Mr. Orley's house around the time of the attack. And get this: all the CCTV cameras in the area seemed to have malfunctioned simultaneously. What do you think of that?"

"Crime. What are you going to do?" Sherlock shrugged his shoulders.

John tried his best to catch up. "Thomas Orley? Is that . . . is that Tom, Molly's Tom?"

Lestrade placed the police report down on Sherlock's mantel and looked the detective in the eyes with as much gravitas and seriousness as he could muster. "This is unacceptable, Sherlock. You can't go around beating people half to death."

"He'll be fine. So he'll be pissing blood for a week. Better than he deserves."

"Will someone clue me in on what's going on here?" John begged the two men.

"Later, John. First, Greg—I had rather thought you'd be bringing Molly here this morning as per our agreement to discuss her more long-term living situation."

"Well, that's actually been resolved."

"Enlighten me," Sherlock said, picking up the knife he so often carried around while lost in thought.

"She'll be staying with me until we get the all-clear." Upon hearing this, Sherlock attempted to stab at the Chelsea police report sitting atop his mantel and failed to notice Lestrade's hand resting there.

"Jesus Christ, you motherfucking bastard," yelled Lestrade, gripping his hand.

"Sherlock!" John also yelled, running to assist Lestrade, as Sherlock stood by, horrified by the sight of the second hand he'd impaled this day already. And it wasn't even noon.

* * *

"It's a nick, stop being such a baby," Sherlock chided the still extraordinarily angry Scotland Yard detective as John finished stitching it up.

"Shut up, you lunatic, I ought to haul your ass into lock-up," yelled Lestrade.

"I said I'm sorry."

"You are unhinged."

"Perhaps," Sherlock conceded.

Having been caught up fully on what had happened to Molly in the previous twenty-four hours while he stitched up Lestrade, John turned to Sherlock and said, "So what now? What's the first step? What can I do?"

Sherlock dug around inside his coat, which had been thrown over a chair, and produced from it a piece of paper with shaky writing and speckles of blood.

"A list of all the fuckers that Tom emailed the photographs to. I want you to research each of them and try and find a location where each one can be potentially found over the next few days."

"There's blood on this paper, Sherlock," said John.

"Hmmmm, I must've had a nosebleed."

"What are you going to do?" John asked.

"I'm going to have high tea with the 54th person in line for the British throne," he said cheerfully, as John and Lestrade both shook their heads, a frequent reaction to Sherlock.


	6. Session #3. Four Weeks Ago

**Session #3. Four Weeks Ago**

"So, where would you like to begin today?"

"There's a wonderful essay in the _Journal of Forensic Psychology_ this month I'd love to discuss."

"That would probably be a very interesting discussion, Sherlock, but not one suitable for therapy. We talk about you in here."

"I was afraid you'd say that," Sherlock said, causing Dr. Doyle to smile. "What are my choices?" Sherlock asked.

"Well, we could continue exploring your attitudes and experiences with sexual intimacy."

"Next."

"Or we could talk about what happened to your friendship with Molly Hooper."

"None of the above."

"Sorry. Those are the choices."

"Fine. Let's talk about sex. Oh lovely."

"Clearly you don't like to talk about sex."

"How very observant."

"Well, as a detective, you must confront sex a lot."

"How so?"

Doyle, a bit incredulous, said, "I mean, as a detective, you must have many investigations that intersect with sexual questions."

"I don't take those kind of cases. I'm not the kind of detective that takes dirty pictures of cheating spouses," Sherlock said, wondering if infidelity has played any part in the apparent unraveling of the doctor's own marriage. He noted again the subtle evidence of red-green mismatches in the doctor's attire.

"Not just those cases, surely, though. Don't many crimes have at their root love or lust?"

"I simply avoid them."

"Why is that?"

"They're messy. Revenge, greed, power, just plain madness, those are motives I understand."

"You don't understand love?"

"No, well, not romantic love, in any case."

"What kind of love do you think you understand?"

"Love of family, love of friends, love of country, love of the mind, love of chips. All of those I think I have a generally solid understanding of."

"I see. Have you ever thought you were in love with someone?"

"I'm married to my work, you see. I simply do not have the time, inclination, or temperament for that."

"Married to your work?"

"Absolutely."

"Hmmmmmm." Doyle assumed a thoughtful look that greatly annoyed Sherlock, who took it to mean, rightly, that the doctor was trying to provoke him.

"What?"

"Last week, you were very eloquent in discussing your perception of the entropic nature of romantic relationships."

"Yes, and . . . ?"

"Well, you don't find your relationship with your vocation, your marriage to it, as you say, entropic as well?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, you can keep putting more and more energy into the goal of defeating criminal activity, but criminals keep committing crimes, like your hypothetical bathtub—you have to keep adding hot water, or in your case, mental and physical energy, but, ultimately, crime continues, and becomes more sophisticated."

"I don't like you."

Dr. Doyle laughed. "That's ok, you don't have to."

"What are you trying to prove?"

"I'm not trying to prove anything, just trying to get you think about things in new ways." Sherlock exhaled sharply. "I'd like to return to discussing your history with sexuality."

"Of course, you do. Psychiatry is nothing but paid voyeurism."

"Yes, every time we get a patient to discuss sex, an angel psychiatrist gets his wings." At this, Sherlock laughed. "Seriously, though, it is a large component of human life—or most human lives, that is. You said last time we spoke that you've never had sex with either a woman or a man, is that correct?"

"Yes."

"But that you do masturbate."

"Yes, sometimes."

"Ok, have you ever had any kind of sexual contact with a woman?"

"I've kissed a woman."

"Ok. One or more?"

"More."

"Who was the first woman you kissed?"

"Well, she wasn't a woman. She was a teenage girl."

"Tell me about it."

"It was nothing. We were 14." Instead of asking questions, Doyle resorted to silence. This time, Sherlock did respond to the awkwardness and continue. "She passed me a note in Science class saying that she wanted to kiss me after school. She told me where and when to meet her. So I made sure to be there at the appointed time. She showed up. She kissed me. And that was that."

"Was it just a peck on the cheek or something more involved?"

"Tongues were involved, I seem to recall."

"Did you enjoy the kiss?"

"When it was going on, yes, it was pleasant."

"Did it turn unpleasant?"

Sherlock squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. "I got an erection."

"That's understandable. I can't imagine a 14-year-old boy in that circumstance who wouldn't have one."

Sherlock looked agonized recalling the memory. He cleared his throat before continuing, "Umm, when she stopped kissing me, a bunch of students came out from around the corner. They'd been waiting, you see. They pointed to my erection and, um, started laughing. She had set me up to be humiliated."

"Oh. Kids can be such assholes. I'm sorry that happened."

"Yes, well, you know."

"That must have been quite hurtful."

"Yes."

"When was the next time you kissed a girl?"

"College."

"That's quite a large time gap."

"Yes, well, I was very keen on getting on in my studies. I didn't have time for such nonsense."

"I see," Doyle said sadly. "And in college?"

"This girl in Advanced Organic Chemistry fancied me. I tried to let her down as easily as possible, but she kept after me. One day we were alone in the ChemLab and she reached over and kissed me."

"How did you respond?"

"Not with an erection, I can tell you that." Doyle smiled. "I didn't react well."

"What did you do?"

"I deduced her."

"What? You 'seduced her'?"

"No, 'DEDUCED' her. It's something I do."

"Could you explain it to me."

"I can't really explain it; I'd have to show you by doing it to you and I can't do that."

"Why can't you do it to me?"

"Because it can be painful, for the person being deduced, to find out things that they might themselves either not know or don't wish to know. And they generally hate me for it."

Doyle said "I see," but he really didn't and his confusion showed on his face. "So are you concerned that I'll feel pain or that I'll be angry with you or both?"

"Both. Because, despite what I said earlier, I actually don't dislike you."

"That's good, Sherlock. That's a good thing. While I can't guarantee that I won't be hurt, not knowing ahead of time what you're going to say, I can nevertheless guarantee that I won't be angry with you. So, I'd like you to go ahead and 'deduce me,' as you put it."

Sherlock looked uncomfortable and shifted in his seat. He took a few seconds to steel himself and then began with a bang. "Your wife doesn't love you anymore; she hasn't for at least two to three years."

Dr. Doyle did indeed look stricken. His face went momentarily ashen. But Sherlock continued, launching into his deductions about the colorblindness, the doctor's clothing, the photographs. As Sherlock continued, the color gradually came back to Doyle's face. As Sherlock ended the extraordinary display of his gift by concluding with his deductions about the cartoons, Dr. Doyle looked sadly at the side of the file cabinet and tears seemed to well up a bit in his eyes. When he looked back at Sherlock, the detective looked more angry at himself than he was self-satisfied.

"See, I told you you'd hate me."

"I don't hate you, Sherlock, not even the least little bit," Doyle assured him with hints of an actual smile. "So this is what you did to this girl that liked you, that kissed you?"

"Yes."

"And I take it she did hate you for it?"

"It got the job done."

"The job of making her hate you?"

"Yes."

"And how did you feel when you did that to her?"

"Awful. I feel awful a lot of the time. Not usually while I'm doing it, but often afterwards."

"What if you're wrong? What if your deductions lead you to the wrong conclusions?"

Sherlock laughed, "I'm very, very rarely wrong."

"But sometimes you are."

"Please, Dr. Doyle. I can assure you, it's very rare."

"But sometimes you are."

"I'm right about you and your wife, though, aren't I?"

"You'll just have to live with the uncertainty." Sherlock laughed derisively at the doctor. "So did you have any further contact with that girl from Chemistry class?"

"No."

"The next woman that kissed you or you kissed?"

"Her name was Janine. We kissed quite a lot, actually."

Dr. Doyle seemed a bit surprised. "When was this?"

"A few years ago."

"So 14, early 20s, and, what, mid-30s?" Sherlock nodded. "Quite spread out. So this Janine must have been special. Would you characterize her as a girlfriend?"

"Yes and no. She was a fake girlfriend."

"Excuse me?"

"I was only using her to gain access to her boss's office."

"Oh, I see. So, to you, she was a fake girlfriend, but, to her, you were a very real boyfriend?"

"Yes, I am total prick, doctor."

"Well, it's not the most admirable thing I've ever heard, to be sure. But, you engaged in some acts of physical intimacy with her, correct?"

"Yes."

"Kissing?"

"Yes."

"Anything else?"

"Cuddling, of course."

"Ok."

"The Americans have a strange euphemism having to do with their sport of baseball, I think, something about bases that equate to sexual acts."

"I've heard the phrasing, but I'm afraid I wouldn't know what is meant by each base. Why don't you just say what you did, without the euphemisms?"

"Fine. Naked touching. That's all. No penetration by anything. No mouths on genitals."

"Ok. What kept you from going further?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, did you have scruples about having sex with her under false pretenses or did you not wish to go further because you either weren't enjoying what you were doing or didn't think you'd enjoy going further?"

"I probably would have enjoyed it on a purely physical basis, but I don't know what kept me from going further. Scruples, maybe. I don't know."

"Did you enjoy the physical contact that you did have?"

"It could feel pleasant."

"Did you get erections during this sexual play?"

"Yes," Sherlock said reluctantly.

"Did you do anything about them?"

"Sometimes."

"Ok. You say 'it could feel pleasant.' Were there times it could feel unpleasant?"

Sherlock closed his eyes as if in pain. "Sometimes."

"When?"

"When I'd really think about what I was doing and I'd feel guilty about deceiving her or I'd feel guilty thinking about . . . "

"About what?" Sherlock shook his head violently, not wishing to answer the question. Doyle leaned in and asked again, softly, "Guilty about what, Sherlock?"

Sherlock barely croaked out the word, "Molly." Doyle sat back in his chair, surprised at the turn of session's conversation, not wanting to step on the moment, seeing how deeply the utterance of the name had effected Sherlock.

Sherlock looked at his watch and rose to leave. "Ah, if I believed in God, I'd thank him that this damn hour is up."


	7. Eleven Weeks and Six Days Ago. Outside 221B Baker Street

**Eleven Weeks and Six Days Ago. Outside 221B Baker Street**

Sherlock, carrying the laptop he took from Tom hours before, was spared the necessity of finding a taxi to drive him to his next destination by the appearance of a black car he recognized immediately as belonging to his brother Mycroft. He braced himself for the forthcoming lecture his brother would doubtless visit upon him and stepped into the back seat.

"Hello brother mine," Mycroft said with little cheer.

"Mycroft, just in time to give me a ride to Belgravia."

"I do like to be of service." Mycroft told the driver to head southeast toward the wealthy London neighborhood and turned back to Sherlock and said, "How are your hands this morning? They appear to be all sorts of interesting shades of purples, blues, and blacks."

"I suppose I have you to thank for the strangely malfunctioning CCTV cameras in Chelsea last night."

"I have no idea of what you are speaking. But," Mycroft continued, turning to his brother with the utmost seriousness, "if you do anything like that again, Sherlock, you'll be in the cell next to our dear demented sister in Sherrinford."

"Noted."

"And how is Dr. Hooper?"

"Uncooperative."

"How so?"

"She's insisting on staying at DI Lestrade's house while the investigation is on-going."

"Rather than live with you? Hardly a shocking choice. Do you want me to sequester her in the Hebrides by force?"

Sherlock took a deep breath before saying, "It's tempting . . . but no."

"How grown up of you, not having a complete snit about not getting your way."

"I hate it," Sherlock said.

"Don't we all. What are your working theories so far?"

"The package is just an attention grabber, meant to set the game in motion, get the players into place. Whoever sent the package knows two important things. First, that invoking the name Moriarty means the certainty of my involvement in the case."

"And second?"

"Whoever sent it knows something Moriarty never knew."

"Which is?"

"That Molly matters to me."

"Euros?" Mycroft queried.

"I'm not ruling her out entirely, but she would have had to put all this into motion quite a while ago and be willing to forgo seeing it through to the end, which I don't think is her style. She'd want control. She'd want to watch everything unfold."

"So it's a waiting game, then," Mycroft surmised, "to see what the next move is."

"Stop here," Sherlock directed Mycroft's driver, stopping in front of a fashionable Victorian townhouse in the heart of Belgravia.

"Oh no, not the Honourable Amelia Southbridge. I'd tell you to give her my regards, but I have none for her." Sherlock laughed at his brother and started to exit the vehicle when Mycroft grabbed his arm and said, "Brother, please try to keep your emotions in check. You can't help Molly if you're completely unhinged." But Sherlock shrugged his brother off, knowing him to be right, but not wanting to hear it anyway.

* * *

Amelia Southbridge descended from one of the wealthiest and most esteemed families in all of Britain, but one would never think so upon meeting her. Most of her body was covered by an assortment of anti-establishment tattoos and frighteningly painful-looking piercings. Her manner of dress always conjured up old album covers for second-rate punk bands. And, although afforded one of the best educations available in the world, she affected a manner of speech more reminiscent of East London Cockney than the Queen's English.

Her hatred for wealth and privilege apparently didn't keep her from having hired help, however. So Sherlock Holmes had been led to her study by a butler that looked like he could have been an extra on _Downton Abbey_. Upon entering her "study," Sherlock found a room festooned with provocative anti-government, anarchist posters and a host of laptops, servers, and loads of electronic equipment that baffled the non-hardcore computer nerd. Amelia Southbridge, 54th in line for the English throne, was a hacker, and a very talented one.

"Mel!" Sherlock called out cheerfully at the site of her typing away furiously on her laptop.

"Great, I had been thinking that the only thing I was missing today was a visit from some annoying upper-classed twit. And along you come to make my day complete."

"Is that a new tattoo, Mel?" Sherlock asked, pointing to a prominent design taking up much of her neck and lower jaw. "Why don't you just get one that says, 'yes, I hate my parents' and get it over with?"

"Fuck off, then. What you doing here?"

Sherlock held up Tom's laptop and said, "I have a job for you."

"I told you last time, I only do jobs that help destroy the global hegemonic machine. Does your job involve destroying the global hegemonic machine?"

"Umm, not quite."

"Then fuck off." She turned back to her computer and dismissed Sherlock with a wave of her hand.

Sherlock went around the table Amelia sat working at in order to regain her attention. "It might not bring about a new world disorder, but it will help me punish someone who did something quite horrible to a woman." And that is why Sherlock sought out Amelia Southbridge today and not one of the other dozen hackers he knew: because they were all men and Amelia prized herself (a little too highly, Sherlock thought) as a radical feminist and would be disgusted enough by Tom's betrayal of Molly to agree to help him. And, beyond that, the job ahead would require looking at those revealing photographs themselves and Sherlock did not want one more man to see them.

"Ok, talk," she relented and listened to Sherlock explain that the laptop he carried contained sexually-revealing photos of a woman and that those photos had been distributed without her knowledge or consent. "And you want me to . . . ?"

"Track down every person that was sent these photographs. I have a list, but I want to make sure the list is accurate, that he didn't leave anyone off. And I'm going to need to get some help after I track down the bastards that received the photos."

While Amelia made a show of considering the job, Sherlock felt his mobile phone issue a text alert. He glanced at it.

 **Molly Hooper:** _I brought the items you requested last night to the lab. They're here._

Inwardly, he groaned, knowing how hard this must be for Molly and wanting more than anything to relieve her torture.

"Alright, but it's going to cost you," Mel said.

"An anarchist like you, out for filthy lucre?"

"You want my help or not, you fucking prat?"

He did.

* * *

The closer Sherlock's taxi came to St. Bart's, the more nervous and anxious he became at the prospect of facing Molly. The memory of their last moment together the night before haunted him. Her face had been less than a hand's length from his and he had so badly wanted to kiss her and believed that she had wanted the same. He went over the moment again and again, replaying it, sometimes imagining what it might have been like to touch her lips, to taste her.

But he convinced himself that he had done the right thing to leave. He would have been taking advantage of her in a vulnerable state. He would have further compromised his emotional involvement in the case. He would have altered even more the nature of their relationship to one another and given her hope that they could be something more than friends, which they could never be. It simply could never happen. He recalled Shakespeare's words from _Richard III_ , "And therefore, — since I cannot prove a lover, To entertain these fair well-spoken days, — I am determined to prove a villain, And hate the idle pleasures of these days." Well, Sherlock Holmes was not determined to be a villain, exactly, but rather determined to remain a solitary hero, for he certainly could never prove to be a lover.

His sad circumspection about his role in this troubled universe would have to be put aside for the moment, though, for he had necessary, but difficult, work ahead for this afternoon.

Before entering Molly's lab, Sherlock took a deep intake of breath, steeling himself and trying to effect a calm demeanor for her benefit. All his mental preparations deserted him, however, at the site of her. She looked defeated—sad and defeated. Her eyes were puffy from crying and every part of her slumped, as if just being alive sapped all of her energy. Everything about the way she looked cried out to Sherlock to comfort her. But he resisted that temptation somehow.

"Molly."

"Hello Sherlock. The, um, items you asked for are in a paper bag over there," she said, pointing to it. "I would rather not be here when you examine them."

"Of course. You don't have to be."

"I have two bodies to autopsy. If you need anything, you can ask Peter, ok?"

"Yes, of course. Is there anything I can . . . "

She cut him off. "I don't want those things back. Just please throw them in the hospital incinerator after you're done with them, if you don't mind."

"If you wish it."

"I do."

"Molly?"

"What?"

"I . . . " But Sherlock didn't really know what he wanted to say.

"Yeah," Molly said and walked past Sherlock, leaving the lab to him.

* * *

He first examined the articles of clothing. All were the exact same brand, design, and color as the ones Molly provided. The panties and the nightie were also of the exact same measurements as Molly's, so were, for all practical purposes, identical to them. The bustier, however, was one half of one size smaller than the one Molly owned. This slight difference told him that, while the person or persons collecting these replicas could guess Molly's size generally, that they never had access to the original articles, which proved to be somewhat of a relief to Sherlock.

The brands were popular ones, available almost anywhere, and bore reasonable prices, unlike the perfume that wafted from the package, which is something Molly could have never afforded. Thus, Sherlock concluded that the clothing offered few clues as to their origin. He found no valuable trace evidence on the clothing or on the book or the lubricant. Those last two items were likely added to the package to make it more embarrassing, not because they held any meaning, he believed.

The vibrators too were of the same make and model and offered no external trace evidence. However, there is one thing often overlooked by criminals leaving behind electrical devices of various kinds: batteries. While they diligently remember to wipe all fingerprints off the surfaces of objects, they often forget internal surfaces, as, for example, with batteries. It was a long shot, but Sherlock took the batteries out of the vibrator sent in the package. His first real break was that the batteries were a store's generic brand rather than a premium brand. Normally, that wouldn't be of that great a value, but he recognized the store as one only found in North America. Statistically, the likelihood of generic batteries from a North American store winding up in a device bought and used entirely in Great Britain were small, suggesting that the vibrator spent at least some part of its life on that continent.

Then came the second break with the batteries: usable fingerprints. They could lead nowhere or they could be pivotal to the case. Sherlock carefully lifted the fingerprints and texted Lestrade to send a technician over to collect them. This was really promising, he thought.

The last object of serious potentiality was the pair of handcuffs. If they were novelty handcuffs, they could yield little value, but, if real police handcuffs, they carried a signature in the form of a serial number that would lead Sherlock to their origin. He felt elated when he discovered the hoped-for sequence of letters and numbers on the inside of one of the cuffs. He texted Lestrade the serial number and, within fifteen minutes, Scotland Yard had located the handcuffs' home: the New York City Police Department. Along with the discovery of the generic North American store brand batteries, two objects now pointed directly across the pond. This was at least something.


	8. Eleven Weeks and Six Days Ago. 221B Baker Street

**Eleven Weeks and Six Days Ago. 221B Baker Street**

When Sherlock arrived back home later that evening, there was one more positive development. His wannabe-anarchist aristocratic hacker texted him the names and email addresses of only five men that received Molly's photos and those names matched up with the five that Tom had written down. At least the son of a bitch had told Sherlock the truth, but he now had to hope that the five men didn't endlessly forward the photos on to others. He couldn't beat up every man in Britain with internet access, although, when thought too long on how Molly must be feeling, he imagined himself able to do just that.

For his part, John identified and researched each of the five men on the blood-speckled list that Sherlock had given him.

"We're in luck, mate, three of the them are based here in London. One lives in Manchester and one in Edinburgh. One of them—a Simon Forster—is out of town on business somewhere this week, according to his secretary, but the rest of them should be close to home."

"Out of town?" Sherlock asked. "He wouldn't happened to be somewhere in North America, would he?"

"Don't know. Can probably find out with some more time. Why?" Sherlock explained to him that he found now two connections to the continent in his lab work. John shrugged and said, "Could be nothing."

"Yes, well, that's all I have to go on for now," Sherlock said, clearly frustrated.

"So, um, do you want to talk about what happened with Greg this morning?"

Sherlock scoffed. "It hit the webbing between his thumb and forefinger. It was a nick, don't make it into a mortal wound."

"You stabbed him, Sherlock."

"By accident. I was distracted."

"You were angry."

"This case has me a bit irate, yes."

"And it had nothing to do with Greg's announcement that Molly would be staying at his home while the case is on-going and not here?"

"I am concerned for her safety, yes."

"And not something else?"

"Like what?"

"Oh, I dunno, jealousy?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

John leaned forward in his chair to look at Sherlock more directly. "I was there, mate. Never forget that. I was there for the phone call. I heard it and I saw what it did to you. We've never really talked about it and . . . "

"And we're not going to."

John was exasperated. Talking to Sherlock about his feelings could tax even the most understanding of friends.

"Fine. Have it your way, but you're forgetting one of the lessons you promised to take away from enduring Euros's mindgames."

"What lesson was that?"

"It's the emotional context that destroys you every time, Sherlock."

* * *

After a fitful night's sleep, Sherlock embarked on a mini-London road trip to meet the fine upstanding gentlemen with whom Tom saw fit to share Molly's most intimate photos. As he made his way to the first suspect, an investment broker whose office sat in the heart of the London's financial district, he kept repeating to himself "don't kill him, don't kill him." But any untoward comments about Molly and those pictures and all bets were off, he thought.

Jonathan McFarland walked into his office on the 45th floor of the famous Gherkin Building, surprised to find a tall, aristocratic-looking man seated at his desk, looking at his laptop.

"What are you doing? Get away from my desk," McFarland yelled at Sherlock.

"Not done yet, I'm afraid."

"What are you doing? Who the fuck are you?"

"Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective."

"What are you doing in my office? With my computer?"

Sherlock ignored him and instead spoke into his mobile phone lying on the man's desk. "Do you have it all, Mel?"

"One more minute," came the disembodied voice from the device, which had been set to speaker-phone mode.

"We'll be just one more minute, then."

"I'm calling security," McFarland said and made a move toward the phone on his desk.

Sherlock held up a hand to stop him, "I'd cooperate if you don't want an investigation into illegal money laundering on behalf of groups on the UK-Terror watch list."

"I've done no such thing."

"Well, probably not, but just think of how disruptive an investigation would be to your business and reputation, even if you're ultimately vindicated."

"Why are you doing this to me?"

"Ask your friend Tom Orley."

"Tom?"

The female voice on the mobile phone shouted out, "I bet you'll think twice next time you polish your knob looking at dirty pictures." She laughed and then told Sherlock, "All done."

At that, Sherlock removed a some kind of device from the side of the laptop.

"Hey," McFarland said, protesting, "there's private, sensitive financial information on that computer."

"Not my problem, which is probably what you said when you received those photos in your email box-'not my problem where they come from or who is getting hurt.'" He then turned back to his phone. "Bye, Mel. Talk to you when I get to the next asshole." Sherlock then took an electric drill out from underneath his coat and proceeded to place numerous holes throughout McFarland's laptop over the sounds of that man's apoplectic cries of "No!"

* * *

Corbin Drury had a lovely wife and four beautiful little girls. Sherlock found this out when after traveling to that man's modest suburban Ealing home. Upon claiming to be an old college buddy of Corbin's, the kindly Mrs. Drury invited Sherlock into the home for a cup of tea and some biscuits. They waited together, making polite chit-chat until her husband walked in the front door and looked confusedly at the stranger sitting having tea with his wife. Mrs. Drury stood and happily announced that his old friend from University—Augustus Nemo—had come to say hello to his old friend.

Drury looked quite baffled, but, before he could saying anything, Sherlock bounded over, put an arm around his shoulders, and said loudly, "I was just telling your wife about the good old days back in college when you, me, and Tom Orley hung out on campus."

"I, uh, . . . " Drury began to sputter, but Sherlock cut him off.

"I particularly remember," Sherlock said, turning to Drury, "how Tom used to love going about and taking photographs and you would examine those photographs for hours. He did send you his latest photographs, didn't he? The one of the mollies?" Drury looked stricken. Sherlock turned to Mrs. Drury and explained that "mollies are fish, you see, and Tom loves to take photos of them and send them to his friends." Turning back to Drury, he said, "You did get them, didn't you?"

"Um, I, uh . . . "

Sherlock put his arm back around Drury and said, "Why don't we go look at them together, old chap?" Responding to the horrified look on Drury's face, he leaned in closer and whispered, "Take me to your laptop right now or I'll tell your lovely wife what the 'mollies' really are."

Drury tried to effect a normal demeanor for his wife. "Yeah, sure. I left my laptop in my car outside. Follow me. Back in a sec, dear."

Before Sherlock and Drury went out the front door, Mrs. Drury asked, "Will you stay for dinner Mr. Nemo?"

Sherlock turned sweetly to her. "No, I only came by for a little chat with my old friend. Some other time perhaps."

When the two men reached his car, Drury turned and spit out "Who the hell are you?"

"The Ghost of Christmas Past, now get out your damn laptop or I'll go back in there and ruin your marriage."

"You son of a bitch. I don't know what this is about, but . . . "

"You can thank your friend, Tom. Now, the laptop if you please?" Drury huffed, but opened his car door and removed the laptop from a canvas bag on the front passenger seat and handed it to Sherlock. "Now turn it on and unlock it," the detective requested.

When Drury complied, Sherlock took out a small black device and attached it to the side of the computer, same as he had done to McFarland's. Then he called Mel, who answered immediately. "Is it ready?" She asked. He replied in the affirmative.

"What . . . what are you doing?" asked Drury.

"We're putting a worm inside all of your email and internet accounts so that if you ever seek out anything pornographic again from any device, your wife and all your co-workers are instantly notified," Sherlock lied and heard Mel chuckle on her end of the phone line.

"What are you—the porn police?" Drury asked, uncomprehending what the hell was going on.

"Done," Mel announced and asked, "Is that the last one today?"

"Yes, thank you, be in touch." Sherlock ended the phone call, removed the device from the side of the computer, tucked the laptop under his arm, and started to walk away from Drury and toward the street.

"Wait, you're stealing my laptop?"

"Why would I want a broken laptop?"

"It's not broken."

Sherlock turned and proceeded to throw the laptop onto the road in front of Drury's house just as a lorry was passing by, thus crushing the laptop under the vehicle's wheel. He turned back to Drury. "Now it is," Sherlock said, with a self-satisfied grin, and continued walking away.


	9. Eleven Weeks and Five Days Ago. 221B Baker Street

**Eleven Weeks and Five Days Ago. 221B Baker Street**

Sherlock hated to travel. If he could, he would solve all the crimes of the world sequestered in 221B, only occasionally journeying out to work with Molly in the lab. He missed his days in the lab with Molly. It had been so long now. They moved about each other with such precision and ease in the setting of the laboratory. It was familiar and comfortable and one phone call, one miserable phone call, had destroyed that sanctum.

Only the most intriguing or important of cases could lure Sherlock out of London. Yet here he was packing and preparing to take a train to Manchester to confront one Harry Belsen, another of Tom's University friends to whom he had sent Molly's photographs.

His mobile phone buzzed and, seeing it was from his helpful hacker, answered immediately. "Mel? Thank you in advance for postponing the revolution long enough to be of assistance. I trust you have news."

"Yeah, so far you're a lucky bastard, none of the photos from the two laptops from yesterday show any sign of being sent on to others." Sherlock felt at least some relief at this. "Apparently, they used them just for their own spank bank material." And there went Sherlock's relief and came back his seething rage.

"And such elegant phrasing. I shall ring you up when when I get my hands on the next computer, hopefully this afternoon sometime." Sherlock rang off and prepared to depart northward, but, before he could leave London, he felt compelled to make one detour.

* * *

Through the glass on the door leading to Molly's lab, he watched her work. She looked better than she had the previous day, not as bedraggled, her eyes no longer puffy from excessive crying. That was some relief. He thought seeing her again looking as desolate as she did yesterday would undo him.

She looked up as he entered, not particularly surprised to see him. "Hello Sherlock. Do you have more work to do in the lab today?"

"No, actually, I was just on my way out of town, to Manchester, and decided to drop in for a second."

Molly looked confused. "Doesn't the Manchester train leave out of Euston Station? That's much closer to Baker Street than St. Bart's is."

"Ok, truthfully, I guess I wanted to check in on you. See how you were doing."

"Oh, fine. I guess. Anxious for all this to be over and get back to my own flat. Greg's terribly nice and is trying very hard, but apparently he thinks there's a dirty dish and laundry fairy that will magically clean up his house for him." Sherlock laughed, secretly delighted that she seemed ill at ease at Lestrade's. Molly continued, "I'd run back to my flat in a heartbeat if I wasn't afraid you'd have Mycroft's men whisk me off to live in a yurt somewhere where there's nothing but permafrost." Sherlock laughed even harder and she smiled too. Both appreciated the moment of levity and Sherlock felt a pang remembering how funny and delightful Molly could be. How he missed that Molly. How he had taken it for granted.

The moment of levity ended too soon when Molly asked him, "Manchester? What's in Manchester?" Sherlock just looked down and cleared his throat, not knowing how much to say. "Or am I not allowed to know?"

"If you really, really want to know, I will tell you, but . . . "

"You think it would be better if I don't know?" Again, Sherlock didn't answer. She continued, "Ok, I trust you."

"You do?" Sherlock looked shocked.

"Yes, of course. Why wouldn't I?"

"Because all of this is happening because of me."

Now it was Molly's turn to be shocked.

"What? Why would you say that? How do you figure that?"

Sherlock was incredulous. "Are you kidding? The living Moriarty only targeted you because you provided a way to get to me. Whoever is doing this current game is also clearly targeting you because of me. If it weren't for me, you would never have been touched by any of this."

Molly furrowed her brow and snapped her gloves off, coming around the table to stand in front of Sherlock. "So, what? You should have left master criminals alone to do as they like because they might end up hating you for it and come after you using the people you work with? I'm supposed to blame you for _their_ psychopathy? That would be radically unfair."

She was letting him off too easily, he thought. "I should have been more careful."

" _You_ should have been more careful? _You?_ I'm not blameless in all this, you know. I allowed those pictures to be taken, I . . . "

"I simply will not allow you to take any blame for that. Do not say anything self-reproachful in that regard in front of me ever again, I beg of you."

Molly softened, appreciating his words. "You don't want to miss your train."

Sherlock turned slightly, as if to leave, but turned back around, saying softly, almost whispering, "Molly?"

"Yes?"

"I miss you."

He heard her make a quick intake of breath. Then she pulled out a chair for herself and sat down, unsteady. "I've missed you too Sherlock. I know it wasn't fair what I did, holding you responsible for what Euros made you do, but I was hurt and didn't know how to . . . I still don't know how to deal with it . . . but it's not fair to punish someone because they don't love you back." Molly's eyes began to fill with tears.

Sherlock felt as though someone had stabbed him through the chest. He felt another hyperventilation attack coming on and used all his willpower to stave it off. He walked toward Molly, still sitting on that stool, tears beginning to roll down her cheek. He put his right hand on her left shoulder and leaned down, almost to her right ear. "Molly, I do love you. I meant it then and I mean it now, damn it. I do love you."

"Just not _that_ way, I know," she said, wiping away her tears. He didn't contradict her. He leaned down to kiss her cheek, as he'd done only twice before, but this time he misaligned slightly to touch the barest edge of her lips with his. Fearing the overwhelming response happening within his body, he turned and left the lab in a hurry. Although he hated to leave London ever, right now he felt he couldn't get far away enough from this place and this moment.

* * *

The tasks designated for Manchester and London went as Sherlock had wished. Two computers uploaded to Mel, two computers destroyed. On the train from Edinburgh to London, Mel gave him the report on them. Both men had refrained from sharing the photos with anyone else on the internet, Mel assured him. "That Scottish bloke actually deleted the email with the photos without ever looking at them. Wrote back to this Tom guy and told him to bugger off and never send anything like that again," she informed him. Sherlock would have to remember to write that guy a note of apology for having nearly made the man shit his pants with fear.

"See, Mel? Not all men deserve to be flayed alive."

"Yeah, most still do." At the moment, Sherlock didn't fully disagree. "So," Mel continued, "that leaves just contestant #5. Where's he?"

"John's looking into it. I expect an update when I get home tonight." They soon rang off and he was now alone with his own thoughts again on the long five hour ride home.

* * *

His gratitude had no limits upon seeing that John and Mrs. Hudson had cooked him a lovely meal for his return home. Despite his exhaustion and irritability at getting seemingly nowhere in this case, the gesture put him in quite a good mood. He even let Rosie tug repeatedly on his nose and ears, attempting apparently to remove them from his head, something that endlessly amused her.

Mrs. Hudson volunteered to sit Rosie downstairs while he and John discussed what little progress had been made on the case. Sherlock asked John, "Have we found out where what's-his-name is and when he's getting back?"

"Yeah, ah, his name's Simon Forster and he's getting back tomorrow, as it happens. And get this? He's been in America on business for the past three weeks. New York City to be exact."

This got Sherlock's attention. "Now that's three separate connections to America, two that point directly to New York City. Do you have his flight information?"

John read from a notepad, "Yes, Norwegian Air Flight 456, landing at Gatwick at 10:30 am tomorrow. Do you want company?"

"Yes. Meet here at 9 am. Bring breakfast."

* * *

This had to be it, the missing link, Sherlock thought, now animated, excited by the prospect of the game pieces finally moving. He texted Mycroft.

 **Sherlock Holmes:** _Simon Forster, passenger on Norwegian Air Flight 456, landing at Gatwick at 10:30 am tomorrow from JFK. Need him detained immediately upon landing. JW and I will interrogate._

 **Mycroft Holmes:** _Will do._

Sherlock raced about his apartment and thought about how he would even get to sleep tonight, with the new promise of a potential break in the case looming tomorrow. When he stepped off the train from Edinburgh mere hours before, he could have crashed for twelve hours right there in the train station, but now the blood pumped endorphins throughout his body and he doubted he would be able to sleep at all without any assistance from recreational drugs. But he dismissed that passing thought. He'd rather be exhausted tomorrow than risk side effects of the drugs clouding his judgment.

He heard once again the chime on his mobile phone, announcing a text. It was very unusual for Mycroft to text more than he absolutely had to, but Sherlock assumed it was perhaps an update on his request. It wasn't.

What he saw shocked his senses. Sent anonymously, the text contained a photograph, a photograph of Molly lying on a bed in the same black nightie he himself had examined mere days ago, doing something sexual to herself. Under the photograph, it read:

_Does little Sherlock want to come out and play?_

_Or just come?_

_12 weeks, 12 photos._

_And then the game is over._


	10. Session #4. Two Weeks Ago

**Session #4. Two Weeks Ago**

Dr. Doyle and Sherlock sat across from one another, once more in uncomfortable silence for several of the first minutes of the session.

Finally, Sherlock spoke. "Have you had any interesting chats with your wife lately?"

Doyle smiled coyly but said, "We're here to talk about you, not me. You missed last week's session. Care to talk about why?"

"You're matching today," Sherlock said, motioning to the doctor's well-coordinated suit and accessories. But Doyle's face gave nothing away.

"So . . . Molly." At Doyle's saying of the name, Sherlock inhaled and exhaled loudly, already looking exhausted of the topic.

"I don't know where to begin."

"How about where you left off last time? You had mentioned that, while you were pretending to be . . . " Doyle consulted his notes searching for the name, " . . . Janine's boyfriend, you engaged in some sexual touching, but that you felt guilty about it when you thought of Molly. Why don't we start there?"

Again, Sherlock breathed in and out dramatically. "She's always had a sort of crush on me, I suppose."

"Ok. Is this something you 'deduced' or did she come right out and tell you this?"

"Deduced, at first."

"So, you could have been wrong."

"I know you desperately want me to be wrong, Dr. Doyle, for your own sake, but I'm telling you, such errors on my part are exceedingly rare."

Doyle ignored Sherlock's call-back to his deductions of two weeks prior concerning himself. "Ok, how did you deduce that she had a crush on you?"

"She gave me presents. She attempted to make herself more physically attractive when I was around. She made it known that she was available to help me whenever I needed her. There were a host of behaviors that indicated that she fancied me. And then she became engaged to a man that bore an extraordinary physical resemblance to me."

"Ah, yes, I do remember that she had gotten engaged. I never knew what became of that."

"Thankfully, she ended that horror show of an engagement before it was too late. But, all of those things suggested a partiality on her part."

"And what about on your part?"

"I am not made for that kind of relationship."

"Well, that remains to be seen, but you said that you deduced her crush on you, 'at first.' Does that mean there came a time when she came right out and said as much directly?"

"Yes, in the worst possible circumstances."

"Oh?"

"Remember I told you about my sister Euros and the series of tests she put myself, John, and my brother through?"

"I don't think I'll forget that story until my dying day."

"Well, there's one test I perhaps glossed over or, rather, omitted entirely." He had Dr. Doyle's attention as he retold the story of the empty coffin and the fateful phone call. When he completed his narration of the events, it was Doyle's turn to be stunned into silence for several minutes.

The doctor cleared his throat, before he said, "That was rather horrific. For both of you."

"Yes."

"Clear up the timeline if you will, for me please. When was your relationship with Janine?"

"About a year and a half ago now."

"And the events you just described at the hands of your sister?"

"A little over six months ago."

"Uh huh."

"What?"

"I suppose it shouldn't matter either way, but why, if you say you are not made for such relationships, would you feel guilty about having sexual intimacy with one woman because of Molly? Was she jealous of Janine?"

"Not that I know of. I don't think she knew anything about her. That is, until Janine sold ridiculous stories about me to the tabloids about sexual exploits we never actually had."

"Then why did you feel guilty?"

"It's hard to explain."

"Try."

"I didn't want Molly to think it was about her, that she was in any way lacking."

"So, if I understand you, you'd swear off all sexual pleasure with a woman rather than risk hurting Molly's feelings? Isn't that being extraordinarily deferential to her feelings?"

"No, not exactly. That's not what I mean. If I could be with any woman, it would be Molly Hooper. But I can't."

"That's quite an extraordinary statement. I still don't understand why you can't be any woman, Molly or anyone else."

"I've explained this to you in the best way I know how."

"Entropy?"

"Partially, yes."

"Because it might end? Because one or both of you of might get hurt?"

"It's a consideration, certainly."

"Not a good one."

"Excuse me?" Sherlock's nostrils flared.

"Here's something I don't understand. In our first session, after relating the story of your sister and horrible torture she made you endure, you said you still visit her regularly. Why do you do that?"

"Because she's my sister."

"But she's a sadistic psychopath."

"She's a troubled human being. Trapped in a mind that doesn't allow her to make even the most basic of human connections. You're a psychiatrist. You of all people should understand that."

"And what if somehow she once again gains the ability to hurt you in some horrific game of hers? Will you again return to see her and offer her whatever brotherly affection you can?"

"I, um, what are you . . . I don't understand what that has to do with . . . "

"All relationships of value have the capacity to inflict great emotional pain on us. But the corollary is that only relationships of value have the capacity to visit monumental joys upon us. I didn't know John Watson's wife at all, but I know from mutual acquaintances that they appeared to be deeply in love."

"They were."

"Do you think John would trade the pain of her loss for the possibility of never having known her at all?" Sherlock slumped in his chair, unable to reply. "Sherlock, do you love Molly Hooper?"

Sherlock uttered a weak, "Yes."

"Are you sexually attracted to Molly Hooper?"

"Yes."

"Do you want to have a romantic relationship with Molly Hooper?"

"Yes! Alright, yes. But that's never going to happen."

"Why?"

"Because she hates me now."

"Are you sure of that? How do you know that?"

"Because I read people, doctor. Just like I can read your life. Admit it, I'm right."

"This is not about me, Sherlock."

Sherlock stood, now fully animated with anger. "All the human effort wasted chasing some ridiculous ideal of love! I wouldn't be half the detective I am if I had wasted my years chasing the kind of illusory happiness that people like you and John spend years investing your sweat and your intellectual energy on and for what? So you can spend even more time then in denial over the burning embers of a love grown cold and distant? I'm sorry if I don't find your example and the example of people like you inspiring."

"Sit down, Sherlock. Please, sit down. If you want to know if you're right about me and my wife or not, you'll sit down."

Curiosity won out and Sherlock sat down, but not without one final kick at the doctor. "I know I'm right."

"You are, about a number of your observations. I am indeed colorblind. What you see here," Doyle said, pointing to his newly coordinated clothing, "is the result of my daughter being on break from University. I asked her if she'd help me dress better while she's home. I used to be so vain about my clothes. Not quite as much anymore. Probably because I was teased about it growing up. But that's for between myself and my own therapist. You're right as well that my wife used to do this for me and no longer does. And you're also right that she used to cut out any funny psychology-related cartoons she came across in her readings. She loves to make fun of me and my profession and is an avid collector of all psychiatric humor she can find. But it's not because she doesn't love me anymore that she doesn't help me coordinate my clothing or cut out funny cartoons for me. About five years ago she was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis and about two years ago, she went effectively blind from the complications from MS. So she simply can't do those things anymore. And while no human being can ever know for certain the mind of another—not even the great Sherlock Holmes can do that—I am as certain as anyone can ever be that my wife adores me. And I am absolutely sure that I am hopelessly in love with her. I've no doubt you're right that had I not had the distractions of a wife and a daughter all these years I would written more articles, perhaps advanced further in my career and been a more successful psychiatrist. But I tell you sincerely that I wouldn't be nearly as good a man as those women have made me."

Clearly fighting back tears, Dr. Doyle looked across at Sherlock, slunk low in his seat. "Our time is up for today, Sherlock. Will I see you next week?"


	11. Eleven Weeks and Three Days Ago. Gatwick International Airport

**Eleven Weeks and Three Days Ago. Gatwick International Airport**

Sherlock sat eating chips at one of the fast-food terminals near the international arrivals area of Gatwick. John sat across from him, having a coffee.

"I can't believe you are eating again. We just ate breakfast an hour ago," John remarked to his friend.

"There's always room for chips."

"I swear Sherlock, I've never seen any human persist on a diet composed so much of potato products. Anyway, back to the text."

"I'm not showing you the photograph."

"I don't want to see it, I want to know what you think it means."

"Well, I think the first part is clearly a crass sexual pun."

"'Little Sherlock being, uh . . . " John pointed downward and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Yes. The second part, the part about there being 12 photos and 12 weeks until the game is over, suggests a countdown to some event, most likely a time limit for me to solve something."

"You know, this sounds a lot like Euros."

"Yes, I've thought of that, but I've nothing direct to connect her with it as of yet."

"So, um . . . the photo?" John asked, causing Sherlock to breathe deeply, looking annoyed.

"What about it?" Sherlock asked, anger showing on his face.

"Are you ok, having seen it?"

Sherlock cleared his throat and squirmed in his seat. "I tried to avoid looking too closely at it, out of respect for Molly. A hacker I know is working on trying to find out more about where the text was sent from."

"How did Molly react when you told her about it?"

"I haven't told her."

"What?"

"I haven't told her and I'm not going to tell her. She doesn't need to know because I'm going to take care of all this and she'll never have to know anything about it."

"You need to rethink that, mate. This is _her_ life."

"John, my mind is made up on this point. Molly will not be burdened with any of this. Listen, you didn't see her when Lestrade and I were emptying that fucking box. You weren't there to see her face when she realized what was on those photos. And you didn't see her the day after. It was maddening, John, maddening, and I can't see her like that again. This is my call and I've made it."

"Yeah, it's your call, but I don't agree with it."

"Noted," Sherlock said and, just as he did, he received the text he'd been waiting for. "It's showtime. Shall we?"

* * *

When the two men entered the room reserved for interrogating passengers with questionable cargo and/or those exhibiting suspicious behaviors, they could see that Simon Forster was already quite agitated at being pulled aside and detained. At the sight of Sherlock and John, he started to speak in an angry, authoritative tone.

"See here, I don't know what this is all about but I demand to call my solicitor immediately."

"Oh, do shut up and listen," Sherlock told him, as both he and John sat down in the chairs across the table from the increasingly belligerent man. The man's laptop had been removed from his bag by security and placed in the middle of the table. "Please open up your laptop and put in your password."

"Absolutely not! I demand to see my solicitor. What is this all about?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, pulled the laptop toward himself, and opened it up. As he did so, he said, "Fine. We'll do this the mildly harder way." He pulled out the little black device he'd used on the four other computers and plugged it into the side of the laptop.

"What are you doing? That's mine. You can't do that. It's illegal."

Sherlock shushed him as he pulled his mobile phone from his coat, dialed Mel, and put her on speaker phone. "Mel? We've got a fighter."

"Didn't you tell him that resistance is futile?"

"Didn't want to waste my breath."

"Ok, give me three minutes. I'll text you when I got it all."

"Thanks so much." Sherlock rang off. A second later the laptop whirred to life, as if operated by a ghost. Forster looked astonished.

"What the fuck are you doing?" he demanded.

"So how was New York? I hear it's lovely this time of year."

"I'm not saying anything without my solicitor here."

"As you please."

"Will one of you tell me what the fuck this is all about?"

"Apparently, an old college buddy of yours—Tom Orley—sent you some photos some months back," Sherlock said by way of explanation.

Forster looked confused and then a look of recognition came across his face. "What of 'em?" he asked, cautious.

"Do you want to save us some time and tell us if you've shared those photos with anyone?"

Now Forster looked genuinely worried and croaked out, "I want my solicitor." This was not the reaction of someone who may have shared what he thought were just some naughty photos with other men wanting to get their jollies off, Sherlock thought. He seemed genuinely scared.

Sherlock's text notification sounded, indicating that Mel had cracked the laptop and uploaded everything on it.

As Sherlock and John got up to leave, the detective told Forster, "I think we'll be in touch soon, Mr. Forster."

"Can I leave now?" The man asked irately. Sherlock nodded. Forster made a motion as if he was going to reach for this laptop.

"Oh, almost forgot," Sherlock said, pulling the laptop out of Forster's reach. "John, would you like to do the honors?"

"Absolutely," John replied. At that, Sherlock took a hammer out of his jacket and handed it to John, who promptly began to smash the laptop to bits in front of a stunned Simon Forster.

* * *

Detective work, Sherlock Holmes had long ago concluded, was often a game of hurry up and wait. And waiting was not his forte. As he made his way back to Baker Street alone, as John had to go pick up Rosie, he grew more and more impatient to hear from Mel the results of scanning Foster's laptop as well as his own mobile for the origin of last night's text. His interactions with Forster confirmed Sherlock's suspicion of that man's involvement.

As his taxi pulled up to the outer door of his flat, Sherlock's heart leaped into his throat as he saw Molly ringing the buzzer. He charged out of the taxi, throwing money at the driver, both elated to see her and concerned at her being alone, without security.

He immediately yelled, "Where is your security detail?"

She turned around and blushed. "Oh Sherlock. It's fine." She grabbed his arm to spin him around toward the street and pointed in three directions. "There, there, and there. I'm fine. I'm more protected than the Prime Minister."

Sherlock felt a little bit easier. "Ok, they should be closer but . . . um, Molly, are you here to see me?" For a second, he panicked at the thought that she somehow knew about the text he'd received last night, but dismissed that concern because she possessed too much casualness, too much equanimity, to know about that.

"Well, yes."

"Oh, come up, please." They ascended the stairs and entered the flat in silence. "Can I make you some tea?"

"Don't go to any trouble."

"Don't be silly, I would be making some for myself anyway."

"That would be nice then."

"Please, sit."

Sherlock went to his kitchen to prepare the tea, leaving Molly in the living area. "I can't believe it. You really did recreate 221B to the exact way it was before the explosion. How did you do it? I mean, where do they even make wallpaper like that anymore?"

"I had to have it especially made."

Molly laughed. "Of course you did."

Once the tea was ready, Sherlock brought the tray, complete with biscuits, into the living area. "So," Sherlock began carefully, "I take it this isn't a social call."

"Well, um, you see, I was actually wondering if I could take you up on the offer to stay here with you for the duration of the case." Sherlock stood immobile and expressionless, as if he'd fallen into a trance, reminiscent of when John had asked him to be Best Man at his wedding. At Sherlock's silence, Molly became nervous and her stutter returned. "B . . . b . . . but of course, I . . . I don't have to."

"No, no, no. You should absolutely stay here. That is absolutely for the best. Absolutely." He wondered to himself if he could find a way to say "absolutely" one more time.

"It's just that, Greg . . . oh, it seems so mean to say, he's so nice and means well and all, but, Lord I think I understand why his wife left him." Sherlock laughed. She smiled.

"You can sleep in my bed. I mean, you can have my bedroom. I'll sleep in John's old room."

"Well, why? I can just as easily sleep in John's room. There's no need to put you out of your own room."

"You gave me your room when I used your flat as a bolthole."

"That's only because I don't have a guest room, Sherlock. And you would have had to pretzel yourself to fit on my sofa. I can take John's old room, really."

Sherlock wasn't quite conscious of why he wanted her to take his room so much, so he made up a reason. "John's room is a little drafty. I don't mind it personally, so you have to take my room. No arguments."

"Um, ok. Can I come by tonight, then?"

"Yes, absolutely." There was that "absolutely" again.

"Ok, one more thing. To spare Greg's feelings, I'm telling him that you're making me do it. Will you back me up?"

"Absolutely."


	12. Eleven Weeks and Three Days Ago. 221B Baker Street

**Eleven Weeks and Three Days Ago. 221B Baker Street**

Molly had promised she'd be back tonight before she turned to leave. Sherlock calmly said goodbye and watched her leave.

Then he went mildly insane.

He paced wildly about his flat, muttering incoherent thoughts aloud. "Molly here. Molly will be here. Molly will be living here. Sleeping here." He turned to face his kitchen and groaned at the mess. Frantically, he went about trying to tidy it up as best he could. He knew from his time with her in the lab that Molly had OCD and prized neatness. That had been what drove her running from Lestrade's house, after all. As he was busily cleaning up the remnants of a failed chemical experiment on his kitchen table, he also noted to himself that he didn't have any real food in either his refrigerator or his pantry.

"Should I try to cook her dinner? No, just takeaway, right," he said, muttering to himself. "Maybe I should take her out to dinner. Or is that too much like a date? Now this— _this_ —is why I could never be in a real relationship. All the thinking. Wasted intellectual energy." And, oh, he thought, the sheets. The sheets had to be cleaned. His room. The bathroom. The tell-tale signs of hyperventilation showed in his breathing rhythm. Then an idea came. He rushed down the stairs to Mrs. Hudson's flat, hoping that an appeal on hands and knees would convince her to help with at least some of the tasks required in the short hours until Molly would return. He knocked loudly for what seemed forever. No answer. He ran outside and into the cafe next door.

"Have you seen Mrs. Hudson?" He yelled to the shopkeeper, no fan of Sherlock's.

"Yeah, she left this morning for Ireland. Casino trip with the girls. Back in two days. Said you'd might be asking after her—said she'd told ya three times about it—but you never listen." Sherlock appeared to nod calmly and affected a dignified exit from the cafe.

As soon as he exited the cafe, however, all appearance of equanimity disappeared and he yelled out, to the astonishment of passersbys, a stream of "fucks" that lasted until he was back in his flat. He had to stave off full-on hyperventilation now. He tried to slow his breathing and, as he did, an idea came to him. To put the idea into action was an act of utter desperation and knew that once he pulled this lever, there was no going back. It was perhaps the most drastic, rash action he'd yet considered in all his years of dangerous sleuthing.

He proceeded to speed-dial the familiar number on his mobile phone. Mycroft answered on the first wring. "Brother?"

"Mycroft, I need you to fly Mummy into London today for a few hours and then immediately out again."

* * *

Mrs. Holmes appeared downright gleeful after Sherlock met her at the curb, where Mycroft's driver delivered her to Baker Street.

She was already talking before the door to the vehicle was fully opened. "Oh my sweet boy. Mummy's here. I'll fix everything." Sherlock led his mother up to his flat and laid out the tasks before her like a general ordering men into battle. Eagerly getting to work right away, Mrs. Holmes gushed "A girl. My boy is going to have a girl living with him."

"No, not a girl, Mother," he said, correcting her. "A friend."

"A girlfriend!"

"No, definitely not a girlfriend, a friend that happens to be a girl."

"Why is she going to be living with you?"

"That's a long story and I'm simply not going to tell it."

"Do you like her?"

"Of course I like her, Mother, she's my friend. People tend to like one's own friends."

"You know what I mean. Do you _like_ her, like her?"

"Laundry, Mother. Cleaning, Mother." She proceeded to start doing both, but Sherlock found, to his great dismay, that she could talk as well as clean equally well simultaneously.

"Your father had his doubts about you from time to time, but I always knew you were a ladies' man. It just takes a very special woman to appreciate my Sherlock. What's her name?"

Sherlock sighed, "Molly. Molly Hooper."

Mrs. Holmes considered the name for a second. "Molly? Is that short for something?"

"Yes, it's short for Molly."

"What does she look like?"

"Like a female member of the _homo sapiens_ species."

"Oh, Sherlock, you're being so difficult. When do I get to meet her?"

"Sometime around never, I should think."

"I bet she's pretty. Are you a breast man like your father or an ass man?"

Sherlock was pretty sure he'd just crossed into one of the deeper circles of Hell. And so it went, all bloody afternoon. At one point in the day, he seriously considered committing _seppuku_ , but didn't want to mess up the lovely job his mother had done on the floors. He had to give the woman credit, the flat looked damn good and the food she'd cooked smelled wonderful. It almost made up for the irreversible emotional trauma he had endured that afternoon.

At around 5:30 pm, Molly texted him and announced that she'd be leaving St. Bart's and asked if she should pick up any takeaway. He texted back.

 **Sherlock Holmes:** _No, no need, I've cooked dinner._

 **Molly Hooper:** _Seriously? You cooked?_

He then texted Mycroft to pick up his mother and transport her away somewhere.

* * *

Sherlock insisted on carrying all of Molly's bags up to the flat. When she stepped through the doors behind him, Molly had to do a double-take to make sure she was in the right flat. Everything was beyond spotless and ridiculously appetizing scents were wafting from the kitchen. While Sherlock placed her bags in his bedroom, she came around to look at the kitchen, where the table, which normally looked like a the table in a meth den, was instead set immaculately with a salad sitting in its center.

When Sherlock came back out, she said to him, "Sherlock? Is that a salad?"

"Um, yes, why?"

"I didn't think you knew what a salad was, let alone how to make one." Sherlock laughed. She continued, "What are we having? It smells delicious."

Uh oh, Sherlock thought, I don't know. His mother just told him how long to keep it in the oven, not what it was. "It's a surprise." To me as well, Sherlock thought.

They sat down to eat, starting with the salad. Molly remarked on how much she liked the salad dressing. "I think I taste Champagne Vinegar. I am right?"

Sherlock had no fucking idea, so he just said "uh huh."

Then he removed the mysterious main course from the oven and served it. Lasagna. Thank you Mother for cooking something I can identify, he thought.

"This is really wonderful, Sherlock. You are full of surprises, aren't you?"

"Well, cooking really is an extension of chemistry, really, so, it's just a matter of experimentation, you know." I'm full of _something_ , he admitted to himself.

She furrowed her brow, but smiled. "Did you use pre-cooked noodles or the refrigerated kind?" Sherlock had no fucking idea.

"Uh . . . which do you like better?"

"You didn't cook this did you?"

"No," Sherlock admitted.

"Mrs. Hudson?"

"No, she's away."

"Takeaway?"

"No." He hesitated, embarrassed. "Mummy," he said, cringing.

"Mummy? You mean your mother?"

"Yes, I had Mycroft fly her in for the afternoon."

"Seriously? Why would you go through so much trouble? It's just me." _Just you_ , he thought—such a Molly-like thing to say.

"Well, I wanted to make a good impression on you."

"I've known you for almost a decade, Sherlock. I think I have a fairly set impression of you already."

"But that's just it. For much of those years, I didn't behave like a good friend."

"Sherlock . . . "

"No, let me finish. You were always, always a good friend to me and I, well, I had to learn to become even an adequate friend. And I've so missed you these last few months and we had such a good talk and things were starting to look like they were getting better between us and I wanted to show you that I can put in more effort at being a good friend. I'm sorry, I'm starting to babble."

Molly didn't know what to say at first. Sherlock looked a little sheepish. But then she smiled and placed her hand on top of his, a gesture conveying her appreciation for the detective's efforts.

"Are there any developments with the case?" Molly asked.

"Some, perhaps."

"Can I know _any_ of them?" Sherlock thought about the question, not wanting to give her any information that could upset her.

"There might be an American connection" was all he felt he could offer.

"Oh?"

"It's still tentative, though. But I promise you, Molly. I will absolutely get to the bottom of this." There's that "absolutely" again. Reminder to self: consult thesaurus tonight, he thought, making a mental note.

"I know you will. It's reassuring to have the world's greatest detective on one's case." Her trust buoyed him; nonetheless, Sherlock evinced more confidence than he really felt.

* * *

The dishes cleared, Molly and Sherlock sat in companionable silence in his living room, she with a copy of the latest _Journal of Viral Epidemiology_ and he with his book _Speed, Ecstasy, Ritalin: The Science of Amphetamines_. Every now and then he would glance over at Molly when she was absorbed in her journal, making her notes in the margins, and watch her for an extended period of time unnoticed. He wondered at how surprisingly comfortable her presence in his flat turned out to be. He had expected to be constantly on edge with her here, but, when the initial nervousness died down, the same sense of ease that he felt with her in the lab took hold.

Having her here was as comfortable as living with John, he told himself. Except, he noted, that he generally didn't let his eyes dwell on the lovely lines flowing from John's ears to his chin. Nor with John was he prone to watching the swells of his breasts when he breathed in and out. And he certainly never felt his cock twitch with the unbidden memory of a photo of John in a see-through nightie masturbating. Stop it, stop it, he implored himself.

He felt slightly disgusted with himself that he would conjure the brief memory of accidentally viewing that photograph last night, let alone become a bit aroused by it. He consoled himself by turning on his scientific mind. It's a natural physical response, he told himself. No matter how controlled, how sublimated his desires were, they still reared up now and then. What mattered wasn't the physiological response or the synapses firing off in his left anterior cingulate cortex. What mattered were his conscious actions. The fact of sexual attraction alone didn't make him any more suitable for a sexual relationship. Even supposing . . .

His mobile began ringing. Mel. He was so relieved to have something to take his mind in a different, less dangerous, direction.

"Mel?" Molly looked up, interested.

"Ding ding ding and we have your wanker. This guy shared the photos."

Sherlock's anger flared. He knew it! He knew Simon Forster had been too shifty, too nervous not to be involved somehow. "Mel? Could you hold on a second?" He couldn't talk freely in front of Molly. He said to her, "I need to take this in private. Excuse me." He then proceeded to John's room. "Mel? Go ahead."

"About a week and a half ago, he or someone else downloaded the photos onto a flash drive." A week and a half ago? A week and a half ago, he was still in New York City.

"Mel? Can you somehow break into his banking records and get his transactions for the last three weeks?"

"Don't insult me, Sherlock. I can do that while making a perfect omelet with my other hand."

"Excellent. Send them as soon as you can."

"Oh, and I traced the text you got last night. Best I can do is narrow down the location from which the text was sent." Sherlock waited for it. He just knew the next words out of the her mouth. "I can say that it was sent from somewhere in either Eastern New York, Northern New Jersey, or Southern Connecticut in the United States. Best I can do."

"If I could right now, I'd bring down the British monarchy myself and hand it to you on a platter."

"Aww, you say the loveliest things."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **The book "Speed, Ecstasy, Ritalin: The Science of Amphetamines" is actually one of the books in Sherlock's library, as seen in one of the episodes.
> 
> **Bonus points to anyone that can figure out the allusion I'm going for in using the phrase "even supposing." Hint: it's not to anything Sherlock Holmesian.


	13. Eleven Weeks and Two Days Ago. 221B Baker Street

**Eleven Weeks and Two Days Ago. 221B Baker Street**

John arrived early the next morning, baby Rosie in arms. He had arranged with Molly the night before for her to take the baby to the Battersea Children's Zoo, while he and Sherlock worked on the case. Sherlock didn't think a visit to the zoo, an activity where she'd be out of doors for hours at a time, offered the level of safety he felt she required, but she was adamant.

"I'm not going to be a prisoner, Sherlock," she told him. "There are three men with guns that are going to be within spitting distance of us the entire day."

But he growled in response. So she placed a hand on his cheek and said "I don't need to deal with two babies today, Sherlock." John was secretly amused at the undercurrent of flirtiness between them and wondered if they themselves were at all aware of it.

As Sherlock went to put Rosie's stroller in the security-driven vehicle downstairs, Molly used the opportunity of being alone with John to ask him a question. "John," she said, looking to make sure Sherlock was still downstairs with the car, "Sherlock isn't telling me almost anything about the case. Is there anything I should know? Anything important he's keeping from me?"

John was so conflicted. He did think Molly should know about the photo text Sherlock had received two nights ago, but he also didn't want to go against Sherlock's wishes. In the end, he decided to trust Sherlock's judgment and hoped he'd made the right decision. "Anything you should know, Sherlock will tell you sooner or later." The addition of the phrase "sooner or later" bought him plausible deniability, but he still felt a bit shitty about keeping something so potentially important from her. God he hoped Sherlock was right.

"So," John began, after Rosie and her Godmother departed for the day, "you and Molly living together. Interesting turn of events." Sherlock eyed him, annoyance in his eyes, daring him to say anything more.

"John, if you'd be so good as to keep your puerile insinuations to yourself, we have a case to solve."

"What insinuations did I make? I merely remarked on a fact, a very interesting fact, in fact."

"Stop it, John."

"I could make some interesting deductions."

"That's not your area of expertise. I pray you to know your limits. Now can we please get to work?"

"Alright, alright. Where are we now?" Sherlock explained the developments of the previous night. "So, do you think Forster is involved in sending the package?"

"Involved, yes, but how and why? What would be his gain in all this?" As he stood pondering this question, his mobile phone rang. Lestrade. "Greg?"

"We finally got a hit on those partial fingerprints you lifted from the batteries inside the, um . . . "

"Vibrator?" Sherlock said, trying to help out the Scotland Yard detective.

"Yes. It took a long time because we didn't come up with anything from British arrest records. Then we searched INTERPOL's records and got nothing. It took some convincing, but I got them to check American fingerprint databases, thinking about the connections you found and guess what?"

"Just tell me, Greg."

"A hit. A prostitute named Gina Wilson. And guess where her home base is?"

"New York City." It was more of a statement than a question from Sherlock, feeling that pieces were clicking into their proper place at last.

"That's it alright."

"Do you have a photograph? Her mugshot?"

"Sending it to your e-mail right now."

"And her arrest records."

"That too."

"Thanks Greg." They rang off.

John couldn't help himself. "You said 'vibrator.'"

"Grow up, John." John laughed.

"Another link to New York?"

"Yes, a prostitute. Greg's sending me her information now. While I'm looking at that, you can comb through these." And Sherlock handed John several sheets of papers.

"And these are?"

"A record of everything Simon Forster did with his credit and debit cards while in New York—personal and well as business accounts. Look for anything unusual, particularly anything around a week and a half ago when he downloaded the photographs onto a disk drive. Anything that might reveal where he was or who he might have been with. I'll look into our American lady of the evening."

* * *

Sherlock had found that Gina Wilson—aka Candi Wilson, aka Gigi Wilson—had been arrested for solicitation three times, tending to ply her trade in the bars of the most expensive hotels in the city. Apparently a night with Gina, Candi, or Gigi could cost anywhere between $1500 and $2000 a night. He made a list of the three hotels she had been arrested at and looked at the areas they were in NYC as well as their price range to see potential places she might be likely to pursue her vocation.

John interrupted to tell him an item of interest he found while perusing Forster's financials. "Almost everything he did the whole three weeks were on his corporate card. Expense account, I presume. Except three consecutive nights in a row he took $2000 out of ATMs. All came out of his personal checking."

Now Sherlock was excited. He bounded around the flat.

John asked him, "What? Does that mean something to you?" Sherlock came practically skipping over to his seated friend, grabbed him and hugged him. "Get off me," John said, confused.

"It means it's time to visit the ever-delightful Simon Forster again. The game, John! The game is on!"

"I really hate that expression."

"No you don't. You know you love it."

* * *

As co-founder of the Forster-Michaels Consulting Group, Simon Forster's office sat in a newly redeveloped area in Canary Wharf. Just what they consulted about was unclear. John and Sherlock arrived there in the early afternoon after arguing three times on the way about whether to stop at a chips shop or not.

"But there's a really good one just down the road," Sherlock pleaded.

"There's always a really good one right down the road. This is London." John finally gave up and they stopped for chips. "I swear, one day the Potato Council is going name you man of the year. It wouldn't surprise me if you starting ordering chips with a side of crisps." At the sight of Sherlock taking that as a suggestion, he regretted putting the idea in the detective's head.

The Forster-Michaels Group's office occupied the tenth floor of the building and required guests to be escorted up to them. The two men gave fake names and waited for someone to come to the lobby to fetch them. Instead, four very large, very threatening-looking men stepped off the elevator and approached them in a menacing manner.

"Sherlock Holmes?" One of the men asked. Shit, Sherlock thought, they know who we are. But neither he nor John responded. The man continued, "Mr. Forster asked that we deliver this letter to you from his solicitor and requests that you leave the building immediately."

Sherlock just took the letter and placed it, unopened, into a coat pocket. He and John turned around to leave but Sherlock turned around again to look at the four men still lined up at the security desk and said to the one who had handed him the letter, "By the way, that man"—Sherlock pointed to the man to his immediate right—"is sleeping with your wife." The man on the right appeared guilty and horrified while the other looked at him with growing anger. Turning to John, Sherlock said, "Let's go John. Things are about to get very ugly."

* * *

John couldn't believe it. Sherlock actually stopped and got takeaway chips for the return to Baker Street. What must his cholesterol numbers be, John thought.

"So the solicitor's letter, are you going to read it?" John asked.

"Why bother? I know what it says. 'All questions to Mr. Forster must go through his solicitor. He's outraged by his treatment at Gatwick. Blah blah blah. Here, you can read it if you like." Sherlock threw the letter at him. John opened it, only to confirm that it said exactly what Sherlock said it would.

"Now what?"

Sherlock paced a few times, lost in thought. "I guess that means we'll have to pay him a visit at his home."

"He'll never let us in." Sherlock shot him a look that told him that they wouldn't be "asking" to come in. "Ok, well, even if we get in anyway and confront him, Sherlock, he's not going to talk. He obviously knows he's in some trouble and is just going to call his solicitor."

"It's all about the proper motivation, John." Sherlock went to one of his drawers and pulled out his gun.

"Oh, Jesus Christ, Sherlock. No, you're not taking a gun."

"I don't see why not."

"You don't? Really? You're too worked up about this case to be carrying a loaded weapon around."

"I'm not any more worked up about this case than any other."

"You may be able to lie to yourself and you may be able to lie to Molly, but not to me."

"John, it's just a motivational tool. You said yourself that he's not going to just have an honest little chat with us over tea and biscuits." John thought hard for a minute and then seemed to have an idea. He hoped Sherlock would agree with his safer plan.

* * *

Sherlock and Molly shared leftovers from the previous night's meal. She tried to get him to eat more of the salad, but Sherlock insisted on only having the lasagna. "No," he demurred, "I can't eat roughage more than once a month. My system can't handle it."

"Yes, I'm sure it's quite unused to anything of the color green."

"Ah, Molly? John and I have something to do quite late this evening. I may be gone for several hours. Have one of the members of your surveillance come inside and stay with you while I'm out."

"Oh for God's sake, Sherlock. One's right outside that door at this moment. I don't need a babysitter. I'm not Rosie."

"Really? Because you're having a childish temper tantrum right now."

"You're the one who's been treating _me_ like a child. I'm the one who received the damn package, yet I'm not allowed to know what the Hell is going on in my own case. You get to pick and choose what information I do and do not get, you've tried to choose where I get to live and what I get to do. What are you doing tonight with John? Does it have to do with my case?" Sherlock just crossed his arms, not answering. "You asked me to trust you, but you don't trust me."

"It's not that I don't trust you. I don't trust myself," Sherlock exploded at her, getting up from the table and knocking the chair out from under himself. "I don't trust myself not to completely fuck up this case. It's hard enough to do the work I have to do without worrying even more about you than I already do. Can't you see? I don't have the answers yet. I don't know what the endgame is about here. Are you in physical danger? Or is all of this just a massive mindfuck? I DON'T KNOW. And I'm scared out of my mind that I won't know until it's too late, like I did with Mary." At this, he choked up a little.

Molly softened at his obvious pain and distress. She moved toward him, to touch him and give him reassurance. "Sherlock . . . "

He backed away from her. "No, no. I fucked up. And I can't lose . . . I can't. I can't worry about both your physical safety and your emotional well-being and trust that I'm doing everything I can to solve this case."

"Sherlock, you're being too hard on your . . . "

"There's no room for error here," he said, his anger so clearly self-directed. Molly moved toward him again. This time he didn't move away.

Her hand went to touch his cheek and he closed his eyes in equal parts exhaustion and relief. "Sherlock," she whispered softly. Just as her hand finished caressing his face and she started to pull away, he grabbed her hand and pulled her toward him, resting his forehead on hers. His breathing quickened; hers practically stilled. He placed both hands on the sides of her head and started to kiss her gently on the lips. At first, Molly didn't respond, but, just as she began to part her lips, he seemed to realize what he was doing and jumped backwards away from her. He looked frenetically everywhere but directly at her.

"I'm sorry," he said, as he ran from the flat.

"Sherlock?" Molly called after him too late, for he was already gone.


	14. Eleven Weeks and One Day Ago. Somewhere in Belgravia

**Eleven Weeks and One Day Ago. Somewhere in Belgravia**

He and John were due to rendezvous near Simon Forster's Belgravia townhouse at 1:00 am, so he had had to kill several hours between the time he ran cowardly out of 221B Baker Street and the appointed time to meet John.

So he walked aimlessly around Green Park in utter misery. What have you done, you stupid git, he thought to himself. You kissed her. How had that happened? He both hated that it happened and hated that he'd ended it. That's what's called a paradox, he thought wryly. No, that's what called being an asshole. You, Sherlock, you just fucked things up royally. You were friends again. And now you'll have to break her heart all over again. You'll have to lie to her and tell her you have no feelings for her, not those kind anyway. You'll have to look into those eyes and say it was a mistake, merely a moment of confusion and overwrought emotions. That part would be true. But the rest—that he didn't want her that way—that would be a pure, quintessential Sherlock Holmesian lie.

But, he convinced himself, there are worlds separating what one wants and what one needs. Wasn't there some song or another saying that, in effect? He couldn't remember presently. The worst thing was that what he wanted most right at this moment—no, that was a lie—what he wanted second most at this moment was to get high. And while he could satiate his want of drugs, what he wanted more than drugs he could never satiate. There he sat on a park bench after midnight, mourning the loss of something he could never have. Drugs he could stay away from, he thought. Could he force himself to stay away from the other?

Thankfully, as the time marched closer to 1:00 am, he could put his dark ruminations aside and concentrate instead on terrorizing one Simon Forster. Well, when life gives you lemons, you squeeze the hell out of them.

* * *

A lamplight in Simon Forster's bedroom went on at 1:15 am, waking him up with a fright, a fright compounded exponentially upon finding Sherlock Holmes seated in his bed next to him and the other man who had met him at Gatwick the other day, whom he presumed to be Holmes's partner John Watson, sitting near the bottom of the bed.

"What the fuck? How did you get in here? How did you get past my security?"

"I could explain all that," Sherlock said, "but, honestly, does it matter? We're here, I think that's the salient point."

"What . . . what do you want? I'm calling my solicitor." Forster began to get out of his bed, reaching for his charging mobile phone on the nightstand when Sherlock took out a syringe filled with liquid and held it to the man's throat."

"You'll be dead by the time someone picks up. Now sit back and relax for now." Terrified, Forster slowly sat back against his headboard.

"What the Hell do you want?" Forster growled.

"Tonight we're going to play a game called 'Would You Rather.' Have you ever played it?" Forster just looked at the detective, confused and frightened. "The rules are quite easy, really. You'll be given two choices. Neither choice will be particularly pleasant, but you must necessarily choose between one or the other. There is no third choice, you understand. Well, technically, I suppose you do have a third choice. That third choice is me plunging this needle I have at your throat into your veins, killing you in—what did you say, John, in three seconds?"

"Three on the outside, two if his pulse is rapid, which, given his level of fear right now—my money'd be on two seconds."

"Well, I think it hardly matters. The point is that you die very quickly," Sherlock said. "Now, what are your real choices, you may well ask? Choice #1 is you telling us quickly and without any fuss or misdirection or ambiguity all the circumstances surrounding the downloading of certain photos onto a zip drive last week in New York City. If you do that, we leave and you go about living your life as you please."

"What's his second choice, Sherlock?" John asked, playing along in the game.

"That is an excellent question, John. Behind door #2 is this," Sherlock said, signaling John to pull a syringe out of his own coat pocket. "John has in his hands a syringe filled with—oh God, John, I'm so bad remembering these things."

"BS221B."

"That's right. BS221B. A drug developed for use in American CIA Black Sites expressly for the purpose of breaking the most torture-resistant terrorists. Once pumped into your veins you will experience a level of pain measured as 300 times more intense than those recorded during the average childbirth. The good news is that the rate for surviving the ordeal is 70%."

"No, you've got that flipped, Sherlock. Seventy percent die within an hour of being administered the drug."

"Oh, so 30% live. That's still not that bad, considering the syringe I have aimed at your throat right now has a zero percent survival rate."

"It's a classic glass-half empty, glass-half-full scenario," John added.

"Yes, yes it is. So, once injected with the syringe behind door #2, you'll experience unfathomable amounts of pain. One man that survived it likened it to—oh, help me again, John."

"To his internal organs being melted away with acid," John added helpfully.

"That does not sound pleasant to me."

"Nor to me," chuckled John.

"So, once your body starts seething, convulsing with pain, you'll do anything, _anything_ to stop it. But there's only one thing that will stop the pain, Simon. That's what's behind door #3. John, will you do the honors?" At that, John pulled out yet another liquid-filled syringe. "That syringe contains the only form of relief available. It immediately stops the pain. And, believe me, you _will_ want the pain to stop. And all you have to do to get that pain to stop is tell us what we want to know. And you will tell us, no matter how much you don't want to. What's the record for breaking a terrorist on this drug, John?"

"Forty-five seconds by Ali Anwar-Druat, who had previously been beaten and waterboarded to no avail."

"So, Simon, would you rather just answer our question and go back to sleep tonight and wake up and go about your life tomorrow as if nothing ever happened or would you rather try for a new record?" Forster said nothing, just sat there on the bed, trying to control his shaking. "Come now, we need an answer."

"What do you want to know?" Forster said shakily.

"Good choice, Simon. The photos, Simon, who did you give them to?"

"A woman, a um . . . a prostitute. She said her name was Gina. No last name. I don't know if that's her real name."

"Is this her?" Sherlock asked, showing him Gina Wilson's mugshot on his mobile phone.

"Yes, yes that's her," Foster said, excited to be pleasing his potential torturers.

"Where did you meet her?"

"At the bar at the Four Seasons."

"And you paid $2000 a night to fuck her?" Forster nodded, surprised that Sherlock knew that information. "Why did you give her the photos?"

"I didn't want to give them to her. She demanded them the last night we were together."

"Demanded them how?"

"She had photos of her own—of me," Forster said miserably.

"How did she know you had those photos to begin with?"

"On our first night together, I wanted her to do some things and we looked at the photos to . . . you know . . . " Sherlock did know and thus punched Forster in the face, breaking his nose.

"Sherlock!" John yelled, fearing his friend losing control.

Forster held his nose, moaning, and said, "You said you wouldn't hurt me if I told you everything."

"I lied. One more question, Simon, and we'll leave you alone. You picked her up at the bar on the first night. What about the second and third nights?"

"She gave me her number."

"Excellent, Simon. Do you still have that number?"

"Yeah, it's in my mobile."

"Be so kind as to get it." Forster did as told. "You played the game very well tonight, Simon. You get to live. I know you'll be tempted to call the police after we leave, but let me caution you on that front. If we have access to top secret drugs used by the CIA, do you really think the gits at the local Constabulary can protect you?"

Sherlock and John left Simon Forster in his bed, bloodied and frightened.

When finally out of Forster's house and onto the streets of Belgravia, Sherlock congratulated John on his excellent plan. "Say, what's actually in the syringes?"

"Saline."

"And who the Hell is Ali Anwar-Druat?"

"Nice guy. Runs the grocery down the lane from my house."

"Ah, clever. And BS221B, nice touch."

"I thought so too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **I had way too much fun imagining the torture scene. Perhaps I'm the one that needs a therapist.


	15. Eleven Weeks and One Day Ago. Somewhere over the Atlantic

**Eleven Weeks and One Day Ago. Somewhere over the Atlantic**

Even before the transatlantic flight had cleared the Irish coast, several passengers on-board the flight from London to New York City seriously considered trying to throw Sherlock Holmes off the airplane. Already he had deduced that one person would soon be bankrupt, that one couple would soon be divorced, that one woman was pregnant with a child which was not her husband's, and that the flight attendant was banging both the pilot and the co-pilot.

But Sherlock needed to keep his mind occupied and far away from the events of the early morning hours at 221B Baker Street. Eventually, however, his mind forced its own agenda upon him and dragged the detective's thoughts back there whether he wanted it or not.

* * *

Sherlock had prayed to whatever beneficent forces were at work in the universe (forces he didn't himself believe in) that Molly would be asleep when he returned to his flat at 2:30 am after he and John had gained the information they needed from Simon Forster. He entered the flat quietly and found, to his surprise, that Molly had indeed listened to him and asked one of the members of the security detail inside.

"Mr. Holmes," the large man said by way of greeting.

Sherlock shushed him, hoping Molly didn't hear them. A second later, his hopes were dashed when Molly came out of the bedroom in her pajamas. "Sherlock."

"Molly."

She turned to the Secret Service agent in the living area and said, "Thank you for keeping me company tonight, Malcolm. You don't have to stay."

"Anytime ma'am."

"I told you: please call me Molly. And we'll have to have an another game of Scrabble some time. You're very good."

When Malcolm left, Sherlock turned to Molly, annoyed. "Scrabble? He's supposed to be protecting you, not playing games with you."

"He did both. He's quite a nice man Malcolm."

"Yes, well . . . I should be off to sleep. I have to catch a flight to New York tomorrow."

"Really? So whatever you and John did tonight, it's led to something, has it?"

"Maybe."

"Oh good, more vagueness."

"Look, Molly . . . "

"I don't want to argue anymore. I really don't. I just want to be free of all this nonsense and I want to go back to my life as soon as possible. I do trust you, Sherlock. Do what you need to do."

"Well, thank you," Sherlock said, surprised by Molly's reasonableness. "I, um . . . Molly, about what happened earlier . . . "

"Let's pretend it never happened, ok? I think that would be best."

"Really?" He was shocked and, if he admitted it, his ego a little bruised that she could so easily dismiss his kiss.

"Yes, what did you think, Sherlock, that I thought you really meant to kiss me? I know you were just being kind." Tell her she's wrong, Sherlock, he thought to himself. Molly continued, "Stress like the kind we've been under makes people behave in irrational ways that they never would otherwise." You're too good to me, Molly Hooper. And you're too good _for_ me.

"I'm glad you see it that way," Sherlock lied.

"So, um, anyway, since you'll be in America I presume for at least a couple of days, there's no special reason for me to stay here, so I might as well stay at my own flat, right? Please, please don't make me go back to Greg's."

"Well, actually, I've already arranged for someone else to stay here with you."

"Oh, don't tell me you've forced John to babysit me. It's not fair to bring Rosie into a situation in which there is the least little bit chance of danger."

"I completely agree with you. John isn't coming to live here."

"Oh," she said with some surprise and much trepidation, "then who is?"

Sherlock winced. "Mycroft?"

Molly went nearly apoplectic. "What?!"

"I know it's not ideal."

"What? How? Why?"

"Three excellent questions. You see, because of Rosie, John's out of consideration. And you've already decided against Greg Lestrade's house. That leaves Mycroft and you can't stay at his house, so he's coming here."

"Wait, why can't I go his house? I mean, I don't want to go there, but I'm curious."

"Mycroft is a bit peculiar when it comes to his personal space, you see. He's even more OCD than you are." Sherlock laughed, but stopped abruptly when he saw Molly's very un-amused face.

"OCD? I'm not OCD."

"Ummm . . . yeah, yeah you are."

"No, I'm not."

"You really don't know you're OCD?"

"I really not OCD."

"Ok," he said, surprised at her own uncharacteristic lack of awareness, "if you say so." She glowered at him.

"Fine, I'll go back to Greg's. I'll risk getting hantavirus."

"Oh, come now, it's only a few days and Mycroft isn't _that_ awful." Molly tilted her head skeptically. "Ok, he's fairly awful, but you said you didn't want to argue anymore."

"Oh, you bastard."

* * *

Ironically, although prone to occasional binge-drug use, when it came to alcohol, Sherlock was actually a lightweight, so even the limited amount of liquor afforded on a transatlantic flight made him more tipsy than a man of his size or a man of any size should be reasonably expected to get. He had decided that for the benefit of his fellow passengers on the flight, he needed something to keep him from deducing them to the point of madness and possible homicidal mania. So began his drinking. His mood lightened and he found that he delighted in thinking how awful the next three days would be for his brother Mycroft. He felt sorry for Molly, but her surprisingly easy dismissal of his kiss the previous night made it a little easier for him to have just the least little bit of joy imagining her being driven insane by his brother as well.

By the time he'd actually landed in New York City proper, he'd had enough time for the little alcohol he'd had to dissipate and for a small hangover to set in, so that when he'd finally arrived at his hotel, now thoroughly wrung out from both the hangover and the jetlag, he just collapsed on the bed and went to sleep immediately.

When he woke up at 6:30 pm, he proceeded immediately to call John first. It would be 11:30 pm there. He answered on the second ring, whispering slightly. "Hello, Sherlock. Hold on, let me go into another room. Rosie is sleeping." A few seconds later, John resumed, at a normal speaking voice. "How was your flight?"

"Dreadful in every way. I still don't see why Mycroft couldn't procure me a private charter."

"Oh you poor dear. Where are you staying?"

"The London."

"Of course you are. So, have you ordered your hooker yet? Are you considering the 'around the world package' or are you keen to go to a specific region of the globe."

"How old are you?"

"Come on, it's not everyday that Sherlock Holmes gets a prostitute."

"In answer to your original question, no, I haven't called to make an, ah . . . would it be an appointment or a reservation?"

"A date."

"Oh good Lord, no. In any event, I am meeting with a member of the New York City vice squad tomorrow before I call to schedule our . . . our . . . "

"Date," John adds, chuckling. Sherlock groaned. "Remember, you can't kiss prostitutes on the mouth."

"While I don't have any interest in kissing or touching one anywhere, let alone the mouth, I am curious first as to why you know this and, second, why that rule exists. I mean it seems wildly innocuous given the other acts being performed."

"I think it's something about the intimacy of the kiss, that it's reserved for those one loves, not just those one fucks. I actually don't know for sure if that's its a hard and fast rule. My only source for it is the movie _Pretty Woman_."

"John, I am dumber for having been a part of this conversation. Good night."

"Good night. Remember to use a condom." Sherlock rang off, both annoyed and, if he admitted it, a little amused by John's occasional juvenile humor.

And now he found himself all alone in a foreign country, with nothing to do and nowhere to go. He did not have the instincts of a tourist. In one of the most dynamic and vibrant cities in the world, he wanted nothing more than to hole up in his London-themed hotel room and wait to start the American edition of The Game the next morning. He ordered from room service. Fish and chips, of course. He watched American television. He had to hand it to the Americans, their television programming was a deductive treasure trove of horrible trash reality programming. Sherlock delighted in turning the channels very fast and trying to deduce as much as he could about the various "everyday people" being used for crass entertainment.

But later on that evening, after exhausting himself watching television and showering, he laid awake on the bed considering that odd bit of conversation between himself and John earlier in the evening. You can't kiss a prostitute? Such a strange rule, if it exists, Sherlock thought. It would seem rather illogical to allow a cock inside one's mouth but not a tongue. Not for the first time, Sherlock thought, people are such irrational creatures.

Then his thoughts circled back to the idea of the kiss itself and that, of course, brought him back to kissing Molly the previous day. Her mouth had opened but slightly. She'd wanted more. But he'd already known that. But to feel it, be to be so close. What would have happened, he wondered, had he just opened his mouth as well? He'd only had open-mouth kisses twice with women before, once when 14 and the other more recently, with Janine. He had it admit that he liked kissing. If one analyzed it on a absolutely scientific and logical basis, kissing was absurd. It served no obvious biological function. Yet he knew many sexual acts were only tangentially related to the biological mandate to reproduce. Not for the first time, he congratulated himself on being intellectually above such needs.

Ok, he wasn't completely above such needs, he admitted to himself. There were quite a few times he had to excuse himself from a session of kissing with Janine to relieve himself in the shower. Once she had wanted to make him come manually, but he had stopped her after a few pumps and pretended to be ill. Again he had finished himself off in the shower. He hated that he couldn't always control his arousal. Although he found momentary pleasure in the act of masturbation itself, what he didn't like was his body's frequent reminder that something was beyond his complete control.

Strangely, he had a sudden overwhelming desire to call Molly. No, it's not strange at all, he reconsidered to himself. He knew why he was thinking about her. The kissing, again, the kissing. He couldn't call her. It was the middle of the night in London. So he just thought about her, sleeping safely in his Baker Street bed. He suddenly wondered if, when this was all over and she returned to her own flat, his sheets would still smell of her. If they did, he knew, just knew, he'd get aroused. And then, he found, to his real annoyance, that he was already getting aroused. You're such a 14-year-old boy sometimes, he chided himself, trying to will his penis to go limp. And then disaster. The memory of the photo he'd seen entered his mind, unbidden. He felt simultaneously awful and incredibly turned on. He decided that to do anything about it would be to dishonor Molly, to be no better than Tom and his friends, so he just ignored it as long as he could, knowing, that like all things, his cock, too, would return to room temperature.


	16. An Interlude: Three Days with Mycroft and Molly

**An Interlude: Three Days with Mycroft and Molly**

Molly dreaded the next few days. She wondered what the Hell she would have to talk about with Mycroft Holmes. She imagined endless awkward silent evenings where both of them would sit in proximity to each other but might as well be invisible. Thank God I have plenty of reading material, she thought. To take her mind off how potentially horrible things were going to get once he arrived in a couple of short hours, she decided to cook dinner to divert her worries into a useful activity.

When Mycroft finally did arrive, it was as awkward as Molly had feared.

"Dr. Hooper."

"Mr. Holmes."

Then there was silence, as neither knew just what to say to the other. Finally, Molly broke the silence. "I've cooked dinner, in case you're hungry."

"Yes, I thought I smelled something. I suppose I could eat. Ok. I'll just take my things to Sherlock's bedroom and I'll be right out."

"Um, actually, I'm staying in Sherlock's room. He's been sleeping in John's old room. But, if you'd rather . . . "

"No, no. That's fine. I'm sure either bed would be equally uncomfortable." And so he deposited his small suitcase in the guest room and came back two minutes later. He scrutinized the flat. "It's cleaner than I've ever seen it. Mummy did quite a job on it."

"Yes" was all Molly could say. "Please sit down, Mr. Holmes. Dinner will be ready in a minute. I didn't know if you drink wine or, if you did, what kind you like so . . . " Molly pointed to a bottle on the table. Mycroft picked it up and inspected it remorselessly.

"It will do," he said, not overly pleased, and sat down.

"Ok," Molly said, wondering if she would be happier in the Hebrides right now. She removed a large pot from the stove, placed it on the table, and ladled out some contents into both of their bowls.

Mycroft sniffed at it, looking unimpressed, and declared, "It doesn't smell objectionable at all."

"Um, thanks? It's, um . . . Romanian Beef Stew with Dumplings." Mycroft raised one eyebrow and proceeded to taste it with extreme caution.

"I have to say, Dr. Hooper, that might be one of the most delicious things I've ever tasted."

"Really? You like it?""

"Like it? I'm thinking of what crimes against the state I can have you charged with just so that I can sentence you to make it for me every night," Mycroft said, smiling genuinely at her for the first time. Molly looked relieved. "How did you come across such a recipe?"

"My mother's side of the family is Romanian."

"Ah Romanian. Well, then . . . " Mycroft poured some of the wine in each of their glasses and raised his to Molly. "Noroc!"

Molly in turn raised hers. "Noroc!"

"Romanian is a wonderful language. I'm no expert speaker of course, but once one knows one Romantic Slavic language, you know, the rest come easily."

"I'll have to take your word for it. I only know a few phrases. 'Noroc,' of course, basic greetings, and, strangely, 'how much for your pregnant goat'?"

Mycroft laughed with real mirth. His faced then turned more serious. "So, Dr. Hooper, how have you been doing with all this package business?"

"You can call me Molly."

"Only if you call me Mycroft."

"Deal. Well, I'm mainly just frustrated. Sherlock won't tell me anything about what's going on in my own case. And he's being high-handed and mother-henish at the same time. I just want this all over with."

"Trust that Sherlock does too. Few things mean more to him than your safety. Trust me, he'll move heaven and earth and piss off half the population of Britain and America to see this through." Molly smiled awkwardly and nodded.

* * *

After they cleaned up the dishes, the inevitable awkwardness set in again when they sat in the living area. Both sat reading quietly for an hour, glancing up every now and then as if they should try to make more conversation but then just turned silently to their reading materials once more. Finally, it was Mycroft who broke the silence. "Molly, would you like to play a game of some sort?" She was startled and didn't know what to say at first.

"What . . . what kind of game?" she asked warily. Mycroft stood and proceeded to rummage through the closet until he came out with the game of "Operation."

"'Operation,' really?" Molly said, surprised and a little confused.

"Yes, 'Operation,' but Sherlock and I devised a twist to the game to make it much, much harder." He placed it on a table and sat down. Molly came over and sat down across from him, still looking dubious. As he removed the game from the box, he explained. "Here's the twist: you only look down once before you look back up again and then attempt to perform the operation. While you're removing it, you have to stare elsewhere."

"Mycroft? You do realize that I'm a doctor, right? I remove organs, bones, and foreign objects from bodies every day at work."

"Well, no offense, dear, but you're a pathologist. All your patients are already dead. How important can precision really be? Besides, you can only look but once for each piece. That's the real challenge." Molly shrugged, but Mycroft continued. "We use billiard rules. Did you want to go first?" Mycroft looked smugly confident, having played this version of the game so many times with Sherlock.

"Alright." Molly looked down at the cartoon body and studied it for nearly half a minute. Then she picked up the game tweezers, looked straight into Mycroft's eyes and proceeded to pick up the funny bone without coming near buzzing out, but, instead of looking back down again before attempting the next removal, she just kept her eyes on Mycroft. She then retrieved all the other items, all without tripping the buzzer and without ever looking down again. When she finished removing the last item, the rubber band in the leg, she smiled triumphantly and said, "Can you do it faster?" Mycroft slumped back in his seat, equal parts annoyed and impressed.

Never graceful in defeat, Mycroft went to the closet once more and retrieved the 'Scrabble' game. "Well, hand-eye coordination was never my best talent. What do you say to a test of brain power, Molly dear?"

"Well, it's not my best game," Molly confessed, "but I do enjoy it. Just played it yesterday with Malcolm."

"Malcolm?" Mycroft asked as he set up the game.

"He's the man outside the door right now. Security. Works the night shift."

"Oh," he said, holding out the bag of tiles to Molly.

The game lasted an hour and a half, ending with Molly announcing "QUIBBLE. That's triple word. 143 points and I'm out."

Mycroft turned his own letter rack over in a huff, annoyed. "The one problem with this game," he opined, "is how much of it is determined by random chance. If you don't get good letters, you can't do much of anything."

Molly held her tongue and just smiled. But Mycroft wouldn't let things rest on that note.

"Now chess. Chess is the sport of kings."

"No, that's polo. Sports, by definition, must involve at least some physical exertion and coordination."

"Well, in any case, it's a pure intellectualism and strategy. Can you play?"

"Yeah, my Dad taught me. But, Mycroft, chess games can run long and I have to work tomorrow."

"If it gets too late, we can always pick up where we left off." So Molly agreed to a game. Luckily, her fears of the game interfering with her sleep were totally unfounded. She achieved check-mate against Mycroft in 45 minutes.

She did feel some sympathy for Mycroft, who now appeared thoroughly disheartened. "Perhaps I should have mentioned that my father reached the quarterfinals of the 1984 World Chess Championship. Garry Kasparov defeated him," Molly said sweetly.

"Of course he did. I'm going to bed now."

"Good night, Mycroft. I'm sorry you had such a lousy night."

He looked at her, surprised. "Lousy? It was one of the best nights I've had in months, maybe a year." He turned to keep walking to bed, but he stopped and called back to Molly. "Don't cook tomorrow night. There's a recipe I've been dying to try. I'll cook."

And Molly, as the cliché goes, could have been knocked over with a feather.

* * *

Mycroft was already in the flat when Molly arrived home from St. Bart's the next evening. He was buzzing around the kitchen but stopped when he saw her.

"Molly dear. Do make yourself useful and pour the wine."

"It smells amazing. What is it?"

"Moroccan chicken with jasmine rice. And, although I certainly don't need it, for dessert, I made a sticky toffee pudding. I thought about making a traditional Moroccan dessert such as Gazelle Horns to stay with the theme of the evening, but, let's be honest, only the Germans and the British do desserts right."

"You're going to spoil me, Mycroft."

"Well, I but rarely have the time to cook and, even when I do have time, it's not that much fun to cook for one, anyway."

"Yes, I agree. It's so much effort and then no one to appreciate it." They smiled at each other, both knowing the loneliness of single life. Mycroft served dinner, which Molly enjoyed thoroughly. While Mycroft cut the pudding and drizzled on the toffee, Molly said, "I don't really have any room for dessert, so my stomach is just going to have to make room, because I'm not passing this up."

After dessert, they both sat at the dining room table, moaning from fullness and enjoying more of the wine.

Mycroft said, a bit nervously, "If you ever feel like it, I wouldn't be unamenable to cooking every now and then. You could come over, I'll cook and you can share with me some of your father's chess strategies. But, of course, that's if you . . . "

"I'd love to, Mycroft, and I'd love for you to come to my flat and I'll cook for you. If I'm ever allowed back into my own flat again, that is. But, I was under the impression from Sherlock that you don't like people in your home."

Mycroft waved that idea off with a dismissive hand. "No, I don't like Sherlock in my home. He practically lays waste to it every time he pops by. He removes books from the shelves and never puts them back. Tears apart the newspaper and lays them, beautiful mind-style, all over my dining room table. He claims that I have Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder. I just have Anti-Sherlock Disordering Disorder."

Molly laughed loudly. "Well, if it's any consolation, he claims that I'm OCD too. If that isn't the pot calling the kettle back. I just like things ordered rationally."

"Me too. Did you see the state of his kitchen cabinets?"

"Yes, it was a nightmare trying to find anything yesterday when I was cooking."

"Same with me today."

"There's no rhyme or reason why items are grouped together in the drawers and cabinets. I've half a mind to reorganize them all myself," Molly threatened.

"I've half a mind to help you." They laughed and looked at each for a long second, then both sprang to their feet and furiously started emptying the cabinets. Thus began several hours of what, to them, was quite a lot of fun. At the end of the evening, both were pleasantly exhausted, enjoying companionable chit-chat in the living room until bed time.

As Mycroft stood up to go to his room, Molly said, "So tomorrow's our last night together. Is there anything you'd like me to cook?"

Mycroft thought about this and said, "No, I'm taking you out to dinner. Be ready. 7:00 pm. Semiformal."

* * *

Mycroft thought Molly looked lovely. While the "little black dress" was a staple of almost every woman's wardrobe for a reason, he had to confess that Molly allowed the dress to achieve its maximum potential.

He'd ordered a very expensive champagne to start. "To Molly," he toasted. "I freely admit I came into this living arrangement with trepidation, thinking it was going to be dreadfully boring and awkward, but I have to say that I looked forward to seeing you every night."

"That's very sweet, Mycroft. I can honestly say the same thing."

"So, have you heard from Sherlock at all while he's been in America."

"Just a strange little call in the middle of the night last night. He was very weird. He said he just needed to hear my voice, to know I'm alright. He rang off right after that. I think he's very homesick. You know how he hates to travel."

"Ummm, yes," Mycroft said, all the while thinking that more was behind the call than mere homesickness.

"What was he like as child—Sherlock?"

Mycroft was taken aback by the question but answered quickly, "Clever, of course. That goes without saying, even though I just did. He had a wonderfully vivid imaginary life. When he played pirates with Victor Trevor . . . " Here Mycroft looked sad. " . . . he placed himself utterly in that world. To be around him when he was playing was to believe you really were on some creaky 18th century ship out at sea. I'm surprised he never came down with scurvy just to make the experience more real." Molly laughed appreciatively. Then Mycroft's look became even darker, "His teenage years were more difficult."

"Why?"

"Like me, he was too clever for the other children. While his expansive imagination and wonderful sense of drama and play made him a good companion as a young boy, it made him fodder for ridicule and cruelty as he grew older. When I was that age, I was able to bear it better—the loneliness, the isolation. I wore it as a badge of honor that I was above such imbeciles. But Sherlock, Sherlock took loneliness hard. I suppose that's where his defense of being a 'high-functioning sociopath' came from. He couldn't admit how sad he was that he couldn't make friends easily, so he pretended not to need them when, in fact, he needed them so very badly."

"How sad. For both of you."

"Yes, well . . . what about you? You were obviously more clever and intelligent than other children."

"That was never my problem. I was always invisible, which can have its advantages. You may notice sometimes that I still stutter. It was much worse when I was a child and a teenager. So it seemed a blessing to be be neither seen nor heard."

During the rest of their meal, they conversed easily, like people that had been friends much longer than they had in reality. At 221B that night, their last night as housemates, Molly did offer him some pointers to improve his already strong chess game. They drank wine and talked some more. When once more it came time to say goodnight, both stood.

"I'll be gone by the time you get up tomorrow morning, so I should bid you farewell now, Dr. Hooper." He kissed her cheek.

"Goodbye Mr. Holmes. You're a good one."

As he walked toward the bedroom, he turned back to say, "As are you. Now I know why Sherlock's in love with you." He stopped abruptly realizing what he had said. When he turned back toward Molly, she looked completely shocked, unable to process his words.


	17. Eleven Weeks Ago. 19th Precinct, Manhattan

**Eleven Weeks Ago. 19th Precinct, Manhattan**

Sherlock met with Detective Joe McGreavy during what would hopefully be his only full day in New York, needing to consult with the vice detective for two purposes. The first purpose was to get any information left out of the official arrest records for one Gina Wilson. The second purpose, the decidedly more uncomfortable task, was to enhance his knowledge of the "lingo" of soliciting prostitutes. The last thing Sherlock needed was for Gina to get spooked and reject or cancel the date, so he had to sound like someone experienced in "getting dates." Sherlock wasn't experienced getting regular dates, let alone _these_ kinds of dates, so he needed all the help he could get.

Of Gina Wilson generally, Det. McGreavy only had one potential insight that might be helpful.

"Couple of years back, Gina stopped getting arrested. That's not terribly unusual. After a while, the pros, especially the higher-priced ones, get wiser and do better at detecting whether someone's police or not, but what's interesting is that rumor has it she was picked up a couple of times and was never charged—just released."

"Why would that be?" Sherlock asked.

"Only two reasons I can think of. One, she's someone's CI."

"CI?"

"Confidential informant. Some cops use them as an extra set of eyes on the street. If someone's CI is picked up for something minor or non-violent, sometimes we can arrange for them to go free."

"What's the other reason?"

"Let's just say, cops have needs too. Even ones in brass."

"In brass?" Sherlock struggled with the Americanisms.

"Those in charge. If a hooker has a customer higher up in the food chain, sometimes they get favors."

"Do you have any idea which possibility it is?"

"Personally, I don't see her as a credible CI. CI's tend to be, well, dirtbags: gang members, street-walking prostitutes, junkies—that sort of thing. Her? She's too corporate, too vanilla."

"I see."

When it came time for the educational portion of the talk with Det. McGreavy, Sherlock had to call upon Shakesperian-levels of acting ability to not appear disgusted and, quite frankly, horrified by the lingo and the sexual positions and acts for which the lingo stood. At least he finally knew what John had meant when he asked if he'd be "going around the world." Sherlock shuddered to think. His unwelcome education completed, he used his mobile phone to call the number Simon Forster had provided.

"Hello, this is Gina," a woman answered, in a husky voice, meant, Sherlock presumed, to be sexy.

"Hello, Gina, my name is John Watson. I'm in town visiting from London for just a couple of days and a friend of mine gave me your number. I was wondering if you were available for a date this evening."

"Where are you staying?"

"The London."

"How fitting."

"Yes. So you'd be available?"

"Would this be a short date or would you like have a nice, long date?"

"I should think I'd like the date to last well into the evening."

They then fixed the time she'd be arriving at his hotel room. There was no mention of money, which surprised Sherlock. Having made the "date," Sherlock bid the New York detective goodbye and headed out to find French Fries, which he was told were the American-version of chips. On thing he had to hand the Americans, they liked their potato products almost as much as Brits did.

* * *

Sherlock paced about his London hotel room, seemingly as nervous as a real "John" would be, "John" being the American term for one who solicits prostitutes. Adding to his nervousness, he wasn't sure that his plan on frightening the woman would be successful. He had planned to pretend to be a British MI-6 agent looking into the photos in a terrorism-related inquiry, threatening the prostitute with extradition for theft of state secrets. When the knocks upon the door finally came, he inhaled deeply, fortifying himself for the task ahead.

He walked slowly to the door, not wanting to appear too excited or too new at such dealings. He wanted to seem as poised and confident as an actual MI-6 agent would be. But all his poise, all his composure, and indeed all his breath left his body as he opened the door to find not the woman but "The Woman," Irene Adler herself.

"Hello, Sherlock. I'm impressed. I thought I'd have to send you more clues. But within the first week! You continue to astonish me," she said and walked past Sherlock into his room.

Sherlock turned, but he was so discomposed that the only word he could make his mouth say was "You?"

"No kiss hello? Oh well, you were always so strange about touching. I'd have hoped you'd somehow worked through your issues with sex, but there you have it."

"You? You're behind this?"

"Yes, do keep up Sherlock."

"Why?"

"I want to come home, Sherlock."

"What do you mean?"

"Just what I said. I'm tired of being an exile from my own country, constantly worried if someone's coming to kill me or take me to prison. I want to come home."

"The second you step foot in England, you'll be arrested."

"Yes and that's what I want you to stop."

"I don't understand."

"You see, Sherlock, there's only one man in all of Great Britain that can guarantee my freedom from prosecution."

"Mycroft."

"Yes, your brother."

"He'll never allow that."

"Not even to spare his brother the heartbreak and torment of seeing the mousy little girl he loves murdered?" Sherlock's blood ran cold and he went ashen. "Now, I know what you're thinking, Sherlock."

"I should think not. If you really knew what I was thinking, you'd have a lot more concern for your personal safety right now."

"Ah, threatening to kill me already, are we? Well, that wouldn't solve your problem, Sherlock. In fact, it would just move up the timeline. Right now, you have eleven whole weeks to get me what I want: immunity from prosecution and freedom from any assassination attempts upon my triumphant return to home country. If I die for any reason, plans to kill Molly Hooper are put into irrevocable motion. And if I return home and am detained in any prison for any time or if my person is harmed, those plans will likewise be set in motion."

"I saved you!" Sherlock spit out angrily.

"Yes, for which I am very grateful. I do believe I offered you proof of my gratitude that night you saved me, but, well, you didn't take me up on my offer, did you? Are you really that scared of sex, Sherlock, or did you love your meek little pathologist even then?"

"Is that what this is about? Your hurt ego?"

"While literature tells us that 'Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,' in my case, that's not true. I say what I mean Sherlock, I just want to come home. And my best hope is to use Mycroft Holmes's weakness for his baby brother to get there."

"You fucking bitch. Why go after Molly? Why not come after me?"

"Oh Sherlock, you are far too interesting to leave this world prematurely. And we both know I have an unfortunate weakness for you. Molly Hooper, however, is nothing to me."

"How did you know? How did you . . . "

"How did I know about your peculiar partiality? Dear Sherlock, I still have clients high up in the British government. I'm not an easy vice to give up, even with the distance of an entire ocean between myself and them. I read the report on what happened at Sherrinford. Your sister, Sherlock? She sounds delightful."

Sherlock was seething with rage, barely able to contain his desire to throttle Irene Adler, "Molly's already under protection."

"I know, of course, but, honestly Sherlock do you think well-paid professional assassins couldn't get to her? Really? I doubt she'd last a day after the order gets out to kill her."

"We'll send her away. Give her a new identity. You'll never find her."

"Maybe. Maybe she'll live out the rest of her life, far from home, using a name not her own. I know a little of that life myself. It's quite exhausting. But maybe you're right. Maybe she'll die a natural death as a little old lady. But maybe you're wrong. Maybe I have clients in MI-5 and MI-6 that can tell me where she is. Maybe she won't last a week in her new anonymous life. The question you need to ask yourself, dear Sherlock, is: can you live with the uncertainty?"

"How did you arrange to get the photos?"

"Oh the photos! Those just magically dropped into my lap. A few years ago, I made acquaintance with the woman who had a date with you tonight. Offered her my friendship in return for some legal protections. And she'd share information and secrets she gleaned from her clients. She didn't think she had anything of real value with those photos, but when I saw who was on those photos, I thought . . . "

"You unimaginable fucking bitch. I should have let you die."

"That's very hurtful Sherlock, but I suppose I knew you'd be angry. So what did you think of the photos? Did they make you want to fuck your little friend right there when you saw them or did you get scared and go running off, disgusted?"

"I will stop you."

"I want nothing in the world more than for you to stop me, Sherlock. And it's so easy too: just convince your big brother to let me come home." She moved past Sherlock to leave the room. "You have eleven weeks, Sherlock. You can use them trying to find a solution that doesn't exist or you can use them to save Molly Hooper. It's your choice."

As she reached the door, Sherlock came up violently behind her and pinned her body against the door, his arm at her neck.

"Don't ever say her name again."

"Is this turning you on, Sherlock," she said, breathing heavily. He reluctantly released her. She smirked at him and said, "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I could think of no other way to get home. Eleven weeks, Sherlock. Eleven weeks." She left the room and he collapsed on the bed, hyperventilating.


	18. Session #5: One Week Ago

**Session #5: One Week Ago**

Sherlock seemed more agitated than usual, Dr. Doyle thought. "Where would you like to begin today, Sherlock?"

"I suppose I owe you an apology."

"For what?" Doyle asked, genuinely confused.

"For what? For being such a cock in my wrong deductions about your marriage."

"Oh, that. You don't owe me an apology. I asked to hear your deductions. I meant it when I said I wasn't in the least bit angry at you. I told you about my wife's condition not to upbraid you or make you feel bad, but to show you that you can indeed be wrong. Might you not also be wrong about Molly's feelings for you?"

"I wish I were."

"Has she told you she hates you?"

"Not those words exactly, but close."

"What were her exact words?"

"She called me a bastard. She said she couldn't trust me anymore. That she doesn't want to see me."

"I see. Some event clearly precipitated that, I should think."

"I kept something from her, something that I thought she'd be better off not knowing and she found out in the worst possible way."

"What were you keeping from her?"

"I can't say."

"Is it about her case?" Sherlock nodded. "Ah. I respect your wishes to keep the details of the case from me for whatever reasons you have, but it does make these sessions more difficult. Sometimes I feel as though therapy with you is like seeing through a glass, darkly."

"Well, in all fairness, sometimes I feel my entire life is nothing but seeing through a glass, darkly."

"How so?"

"I may think what I'm doing is for the best in the moment but then the consequences—I don't think through the possible consequences."

"As with keeping that information from Molly?"

"Yes, that, as well as so many other ill-thought-out decisions."

"For example?"

"Many years ago I did something, something based on nothing but my sentiments, my sentimentality, for a woman and now it's come back to destroy everything I love."

"Can you tell me about that?"

"It was a case involving a very powerful and very connected prostitute. A dominatrix."

"Really?"

"I can't give you many details about the case because it intersects both with national security and the present case I'm working on."

"I see. Well, can you tell me anything about it?"

"It was probably the first time I had a bit of an infatuation with a woman."

"Is that so? What was it about her that was special?"

"Her mind. She was as good at playing the game as I am."

"The game?"

"The game—the plot—the strategy—the wonderfully complicated dance between criminality and its detection."

"Ok. So she had a particularly sophisticated criminal mind?"

"Yes, very sophisticated."

"Is that all that attracted you to her?"

"No, not all. She . . . she effected a frank admiration and awe of my own intellectual abilities. Nothing is so beguiling as a worthy adversary looking upon you as if you were a God on Mount Olympus. For someone as with as healthy a self-regard as I do, it was difficult to resist her charms."

"You say she 'effected' it. Was is an act, then?"

"Yes and no. She did have some real affection and admiration, but that didn't stop her from using me for her own needs."

"It must have been very painful when you realized that."

"I felt a proper fool."

"Is that the act of sentimentality you regret?"

"No, something much worse. I saved her life."

"Why is that bad?"

"Because now, if I don't stop her, she's going to end Molly's life." At that, Doyle took a deep breath of obvious concern.

"Oh dear."

"I've already said too much."

"You say you were infatuated with her, but you didn't list her as one of the women with whom you have had sexual contact. Did you never act on your infatuation?"

"No."

"Why is that? Did you never have an opportunity?"

"I could have had her any time I wished."

"Really? Then why didn't you?"

"I didn't want her to have any more power over me than she already did."

Doyle thought about Sherlock's words for several seconds and then asked, "Do you always associate sex with having power over someone?"

"Certainly it functions that way for many people. 'The Woman' being a prime example."

"Yes, that would seem her primary use of sex, both as a dominatrix and a person using it to some other advantages. But, that doesn't describe all sexual relationships, surely? Do you think any sexual relationship would involve someone gaining power over you?"

"Yes."

"How?"

"If someone knows you want something—that you need something—they can use it against you."

"But, if it's a truly mutual relationship and not one of dominance or manipulation, the point is that the other person needs you as much as you need them. No one 'uses' it against the other because the love and mutual respect between them prevents it."

"All relationships are fundamentally unequal, though. One always needs the other more."

"All relationships? Including non-sexual, non-romantic ones?"

"Yes."

"What about you and John?"

"What about us?"

"That's a relationship, is it not?"

"Yes, a friendship."

"Is it an unequal one?"

"Yes."

"So one of you needs the other more?"

"Yes."

"Which is it in this case?"

"I need John more."

"Why is that?"

"Because," Sherlock said, uncomfortable, "I don't make friends easily. John is much better at social interaction. He's almost like an interpreter of human behavior for me."

"Are you an alien life form in that scenario?"

Sherlock laughed. "Perhaps."

"What do you think he gets from you?"

"He gets the excitement of being a part of the game."

"But surely there's something he gets from you, as a person, outside of your investigations together."

"I don't know. I've really never been able to understand why he tolerates me."

"What about Molly? Why do think she loves you?"

"She doesn't anymore."

"Ok, let's say that's true. I don't know that it is, but let's go along with that for now. Why do you think she loved you?"

"Mental illness, perhaps?"

Doyle laughed. "So you don't know why John likes you and you think Molly's crazy for loving you? That suggests you have a very low opinion of yourself."

"You'd be the first person ever to suggest that," Sherlock said, incredulous. "Most people would say I'm a conceited, self-important bastard."

"When it comes to your intellectual capabilities, you may well be. But, of your emotional capabilities, I think you are very insecure," Doyle said, stopping to consider something for several long seconds. "Sherlock, I want to do an experiment. You're going to hate it, but I need you to cooperate."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and grumbled, "What is it?"

"I'm going to ask you questions in a quick-fire manner. And I don't want you to think about the answer, just spit out the very first thing that pops into your mind, no matter how embarrassing, no matter how much it may or may not make sense to you. No editing. Understood?"

"Yes, I suppose."

"Ok, remember: no editing, no censoring. First thing that pops into your head—be they words, images, anything."

"Fine, yes, just get on with it."

"What's your favorite food?"

"Easy. Chips."

"What kind of pet would you like to have?"

"A dog."

"Where do you like to vacation?"

"London."

"Really?"

"I don't like going anywhere else."

"Ok. Favorite place in London?"

"My flat." Doyle couldn't help but chuckle.

"Second favorite?"

"The pathology lab at St. Bart's."

"What's John's best quality?"

"Loyalty."

"What's Molly's best quality?"

"Kindness."

"What's your best quality?"

"My mind."

"Why don't you want to have sex?"

"I don't want to be laughed at."

Dr. Doyle paused in his rapid-fire delivery to appreciate the moment of honesty from Sherlock. "Do you think Molly would laugh at you?"

"No . . . I . . . I don't know."

"What would she laugh at, specifically? Your lack of experience?"

"Maybe."

"Does that sound like something Molly would do?"

"No, it doesn't, but . . . "

"What else would she laugh at?"

"How needy I can be."

"Would you laugh at her?"

"Why would I laugh at her?"

"If she was needy?"

"No, of course not."

"Do you feel like you need her Sherlock?"

"I don't want to."

"That's not what I asked."

Sherlock wouldn't answer, but instead sat in the chair, shaking his head angrily. "So what if I do? I still can't have her."

"Because you think she hates you?"

"Yes."

"Ok, let's pretend either that she doesn't hate you—that you're wrong, which you can be—or that you can in some way apologize to her for whatever has her hating you at the moment, what frightens you about a potential romantic relationship with her?

"Everything."

"Such as?"

"That it'll end our friendship."

"That's a valid concern."

"That she'll find me cloying and needy."

"That's a valid concern, but it can be addressed and dealt with. What else?"

Here Sherlock blushed. "Maybe she won't like. Maybe I can't . . . "

"You need to say it, Sherlock."

"Maybe I won't be any good at it."

"'It' being sex?"

"Yes, I've never been good at any sports, after all."

Doyle couldn't help but smile. "I can assure you, Sherlock, physical prowess in sports in no way correlates to sexual performance." Sherlock just crossed his arms, unable to look directly at Dr. Doyle. "You know, Sherlock, I've been a practicing psychiatrist for seventeen years, not including years of training and education before that. I've counseled hundreds of couples with sexual issues and do you know how many of those issues involved complaints about 'bad techniques'? Maybe one or two. And even those people had much bigger issues. Sexual problems are really covers for bad communication, lack of honesty, lack of trust, lack of intimacy. Sex is neither rocket science nor physical _jiu jitsu_."

"None of this matters. It's not going to happen."

"I think that would be a profound loss, perhaps for both of you. I have had a few patients that are legitimately 'asexual,' that have had no real sexual or emotional desires for either gender. You are not one of them, Sherlock. I sense in you a great need for emotional and physical connection. And I think if you continue to resist it, you'll always feel an emptiness."

"Your concerns have been noted," Sherlock croaked out.

"I'm afraid our time is up," Doyle announced.

"You've no idea how true that is," Sherlock said sadly as walked out of the office for what he thought would be the last time.


	19. Ten Weeks and Six Days Ago. Mycroft's Office

**Ten Weeks and Six Days Ago. Mycroft's Office**

One of Mycroft's cars picked Sherlock up directly from Gatwick, a favor for the which the detective was ever so grateful because, in the state he was in after returning from his trip to New York City, he didn't think he had enough mental strength to navigate the train system, a system he'd known by heart since he was a boy. He was clouded, troubled in mind. This would be the hardest sell of his life.

When Sherlock entered his brother's office, Mycroft at first mistook the look on Sherlock's face for simple jetlag. He knew how much his brother hated traveling of any kind, let alone two international flights in the span of only a few days. So he attempted light-hearted jocularity.

"So, brother mine, how are the colonists doing without us?" But, although he smiled at Sherlock, the look Sherlock shot back to him left him cold. He could have sworn that Sherlock looked like he could cry at any moment, a prospect that terrified Mycroft. "Sherlock, what's wrong? What's happened?"

"It's 'The Woman,' she's behind all this," Sherlock said, collapsing into the chair across from Mycroft's desk. Instead of sitting at his desk, Mycroft came around and pulled a chair near to his brother, sensing his distress.

"What woman?"

"' _The_ Woman'—Irene Adler."

"So she really is alive? I had thought John Watson had made a mistake when he said the name back in Sherrinford. Of course, there have been rumors of her sightings, but . . . but I saw her body myself. I had thought the only person capable of pulling off such a feat of allusion would be . . . " Mycroft stopped as he saw Sherlock lift his head and peer at him with a look of utter misery and guilt. "Oh Sherlock, tell me you didn't." But Sherlock only looked down at his own hands. Mycroft needed to sit. "Ok, so she's alive. Irene Adler is alive." Mycroft furrowed his brow. "So she's behind this, but why? What could be she possibly . . . "

"She wants to come home."

"Home? She . . . she wants . . . you're telling me she wants to come back to Britain. That's absurd. She'll be arrested the second she lands."

"That's just it. She wants permanent immunity from prosecution and freedom from any danger at the hands of the British government."

Mycroft laughed. "I can't believe she'd be so delusional as to think that the British government would be held hostage over, what, a dozen dirty pictures of an unmarried woman."

"Mycroft!"

"Now Sherlock, I hate the idea of those photos being distributed too. I've come to have very fond regards for Molly myself, and would do what I could to keep those photos from getting out, but, really . . . "

"Mycroft! She's going to have Molly killed if we don't agree to her demands." This got Mycroft's attention.

"What? I don't . . . kill Molly? H . . . how?"

"A bounty. Professional killers."

"Oh my God, Sherlock. This is absolutely sickening. I'm so sorry."

"She's given me eleven weeks to arrange for her return home. That gives us some time to try and find another solution, but you should work on arranging her a pardon in the meantime just in case."

"Sherlock," Mycroft said, looking at his brother with sadness and concern, "you can't possibly think that actually offering her immunity and residence here is in any way an option. She's repeatedly aided and abetted terrorists!"

"What . . . w . . . what are you saying? You're prepared to let Molly be murdered?!"

"No, no, of course not. I'm afraid the only option is for her to go into protection. A new identity. I think all of the British Isles and even Ireland are out for her potential relocation. We'll have to think about areas around the world with large numbers of British emigres. Australia, New Zealand, Canada, South Africa."

"Absolutely not."

"Sherlock, I understand you're . . . "

"You don't understand. You have a leak somewhere in your office or in MI-5 or MI-6. She had the files on Sherrinford. That's how she knew about me and Molly." Mycroft sat back in his seat and groaned at this information. "She and her agents will be able to find her and kill her."

Mycroft thought about this for a while. "You say we have, what, eleven weeks? We have time to investigate likely leaks before putting into place the plan to secret Molly away. Believe me, brother, I will ensure her safety."

"I don't believe you!"

"Sherlock!"

"I don't believe or trust anyone when it comes to Molly's safety. I will spend the next eleven weeks scouring this woman's past—her family, her friends, her lovers, her clients—to find a pressure point, a weakness, just as she has found mine in Molly. But I need to have a failsafe. Please, Mycroft, I'm not above begging you."

"Brother," Mycroft said gently, almost in a whisper, "you know my love for you has made me compromise my ethics and my judgment many times, but you need to believe me, I've grown very fond of Molly the last few days and I would never willingly jeopardize her safety. And even if I hadn't struck up a friendship of my own with her, just your love for her alone would cause me to move the heavens and the earth to protect her. I will arrange for her safe keeping wherever we decide to place her. Now, brother, help me ferret out whomever might be leaking information to Irene Adler. Work with me to keep Molly safe."

Sherlock shook his head violently, stood from the chair, and picked the chair up, proceeding to smash it into pieces against the walls of Mycroft's office.

* * *

By the time he returned to 221B, Sherlock was beyond exhausted. He thanked whatever God he didn't believe in that today was a work day for Molly and that he had several hours to recover as much equanimity as he could muster. One look at him and she'd just know something truly awful had occurred in New York City and he had made a determination that Molly would never know anything about what had transpired.

He was going to fix everything. He would find a pressure point that would bring that fucking bitch to her knees and insure Molly's continued health and happiness, even if it killed him. But he could do nothing useful in his current state, so he thought about using cocaine or amphetamines to provide him energy to get started on the tasks ahead right away, but feared what could happen if his body reacted badly to either. He remembered what Molly had said when she examined him the last time he'd used drugs. "I've seen healthier people on the slab," she had said. No, he couldn't risk his body giving out before his brain had had time to do its work. So he collapsed on John's old bed instead, hoping to regain his energy through the novel concept of sleep and rest.

When Molly returned home to Baker Street after her day at St. Bart's, she noticed Sherlock's unpacked bags in the living area, with no sign of Sherlock. She checked the bathroom, then knocked on the door to the guest room. "Sherlock, you in there?" She heard a groan. "Sherlock?"

"Yeah," he said, sleepily.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't know you were sleeping. Go back to bed."

"No, no, it's fine. I wanted to get up. I'll be down in a minute."

"Ok. I brought you some fish and chips for dinner. Thought you might be in withdrawal." She went to the kitchen and set the table to eat while Sherlock made his way downstairs. When he rounded the corner into the kitchen, she looked at him with a beaming smile. Sherlock believed he'd never seen her look as beautiful as she did in that moment. And he felt as though the cables mooring him to his reality snapped.

He rushed toward her, grabbing her face, and kissing her furiously. It took a second for Molly to catch up with what was happening, but she soon took her own hands and placed them on the back of Sherlock's head, kneading his hair, as he pushed his tongue into her mouth. At contact with Sherlock's tongue, she let out a squeal that Sherlock found to be the most erotic sound he'd ever heard. Their tongues massaged each other's. But he needed more.

He picked her up and placed her on the table, pushing aside the dishes and glasses she'd just placed there, sending them crashing and breaking onto the floor. Neither of them paid any mind to the broken shards about the floor around them. Sherlock ground his erection into her hips as she threw her head back, allowing him access to her neck. Their clothes just had to go, he thought. He had to be inside her. He thought he'd die if he didn't get there soon.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, are you alright? You look flushed," Molly said, anchoring Sherlock back to reality, a reality where he stood staring at her as she finished putting the utensils down on the table. He was aware of the embarrassing tightness he felt in his pants and hoped that she didn't look down and see his growing erection.

"I need to take a shower," he yelled out and hurried for the bathroom, leaving a confused Molly standing in the kitchen.

"Ok," she yelled after him, shrugging, "I'll just keep the fish and chips warm in the oven for you."

Once in the shower, he couldn't but help but return to his fantasy of mere seconds ago. His body responded, pleased with his attention, so rarely was it given freely. He'd feel bad about it later, but right now, it felt too good.

* * *

When finally back in the kitchen, seated at the table and eating the fish and chips, Molly asked, "Are you feeling better now you've showered?" You have no idea, Sherlock thought. "I know when I get back from a conference trip, all I want to do is sit in a bubble bath for an hour with a glass of wine," she said. That's the last image I need in my head right now, thanks, thought Sherlock.

"Yes, I did need a bit of a wake-up call."

"So how was it?" Sherlock panicked for a second, thinking she was referring to his activities in the shower.

"The shower?"

"No, New York City."

"Oh, the hotel was nice. The streets are almost as dirty as London's. It has that going for it."

"So, make any progress?"

"Some, perhaps."

"Oh, for God's sake, can't I know anything?"

"Ummm . . . " Sherlock said, searching for something safe he could tell her.

"Nevermind. God forbid I have any knowledge about what's happening in my own case."

"Molly," Sherlock said, wanting to change topic, "I wanted to apologize for forcing Mycroft on you. You've been in enough misery without having to share a space with him."

"No apologies needed. He was quite lovely, really."

Sherlock looked horrified. "Lovely? Mycroft? Are we talking about the same man? Tall-ish fellow, walks and talks like there's a steel rod permanently embedded up his ass?"

Molly laughed. "He's quite nice when he wants to be."

"But that's just it," Sherlock said, "he never wants to be nice."

"Well, he was to me. He's taking me to see _Othello_ next Saturday. It's a limited engagement with Idris Elba as Othello. Been sold out for months."

"I don't know who that is. But, Mycroft . . . Mycroft Holmes is taking you to the theatre? What unholy activities went on here while I was away?"

"Oh, stop it. You just don't like him because he's your big brother. He's really very clever and funny."

This cut Sherlock, causing a flash of anger and jealousy. "Clever? More clever than I am?"

"A different kind of clever, Sherlock."

"And Mycroft has never been funny in his entire life," Sherlock said, piqued. He threw his napkin down on the table angrily. "I need a cup of tea. Didn't have one decent one in days." He stood from the table, turned around, and opened one of his cabinets to see everything rearranged neatly and logically. It appalled him. "And what the fucking fuck is this?"

Molly broke out into loud laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **My apologies for my cruelty.


	20. Ten Weeks and Four Days Ago. 221B Baker Street

**Ten Weeks and Four Days Ago. 221B Baker Street**

Over the 48 hours since Sherlock had returned from New York, 221B Baker Street had been transformed from the pristine flat left by Mrs. Holmes into what looked like one hundred file cabinets exploded in the living room. Stacks and stacks of files, many of them documents designated top secret, were strewn about in piles.

This day would be the first of many long days for Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. They had agreed the day before, when Mycroft's people started delivering the seemingly endless boxes of records, that they would split up the duties. John would be sorting through the personnel records of government officials looking for potential clients of "The Woman" who could have leaked information about the Sherrinford business, while Sherlock would be combing through everything the government had on Irene Adler's life, looking for potential pressure points.

John arrived early on the first day of real investigation just as Molly and Sherlock were finishing up breakfast. The door to the flat was open, so he just walked in to see the two arguing once again about the placement of items in the kitchen cabinets.

"Oh good Lord, you aren't still arguing about that, are you?" John asked.

"Well, Sherlock, who congratulates himself endlessly on his adherence to strict rationality, refuses to admit that this is much more logical than the way he had it," Molly explained to him.

"There's no objectively 'rational' way to organize cabinets," Sherlock disagreed, "there's only the way one is comfortable with—and that would be rational."

"Sherlock, you had glasses in the cabinet under the sink. That's madness."

"Oh, just go saw and slice into dead bodies already. John and I have work to do."

John wondered if they knew how much they resembled an old married couple. Molly kissed John on the cheek and said goodbye before heading toward the door, but Sherlock called after her. "Pick up fish and chips for dinner."

Molly, turning back, said "First of all, you've had fish and chips two nights in a row . . . "

"I'm still re-acclimatizing to England," Sherlock interrupted.

" . . . Second of all, I can't tonight," Molly continued, as if not hearing Sherlock. "Mycroft has invited me over for dinner."

Sherlock looked nearly apoplectic. "What?!"

"I promise I'll make you the most quintessentially British meal ever tomorrow night, 'kay?" Seeing that he was still in a huff, Molly ran back over and kissed Sherlock on the cheek. "Don't be cross, Sherlock. It's just one dinner with Mycroft." Then she ran out of the flat.

John looked stunned and asked, "Dinner? With Mycroft? Mycroft Holmes?"

"I know! It's an unholy alliance if I ever heard one," Sherlock agreed.

With his next words, John knew he'd be stirring up the pot, but he couldn't resist. "I wonder if they are dating."

Sherlock scowled angrily at his friend. "Are you trying to make me vomit?"

John continued, mercilessly. "They're both single. Molly does like sociopaths, so . . . "

"Please, I beg of you, stop."

"Just let me know where they register for their wedding."

"You bastard," Sherlock said, glaring. John laughed.

"Alright, alright. Now, tell me, what am I looking for in all this mess?" John pointed to the stacks of papers and files.

"You'll be starting with these people," Sherlock said, handing John a list of names. "These are the people with immediate access to the Sherrinford file. You need to look at their travel records to see if they've made visits to New York, then cross-reference the times of those trips with potential large withdrawals of money."

"Payments for Irene Adler's services, right?"

"Yes."

"What if none of them pans out?"

"Then we move to the second group of names Mycroft has provided."

"Which are?"

"The names of the people with immediate access to the people who have immediate access to the Sherrinford file."

"And if God forbid those names don't provide a suspect?"

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Then we go to the next group of names. The people with immediate access to the people who have immediate access to the people who have immediate access to the Sherrinford file."

John's eyes glazed over. "How many names are we possibly talking about here, Sherlock?"

"Well," Sherlock said, shrugging, "if we have to go down past a fourth level of access, I'd say around [inaudible] people." Sherlock's voice trailed off and he mumbled incoherently the last part of his sentence.

"What was that? I didn't hear that."

"Roughly 5,000 people."

"Five thousand! And how long do we have to get these done?"

"Eleven weeks, but I'd really like not to come in right under the deadline."

"Can't Mycroft's people help with this?"

"Absolutely not! One or more of his people might be clients of hers. Look, I'm not in a much better position here. I've got thousands of pages of surveillance reports to sort through and then I have to somehow convince dozens and dozens of Britain's wealthiest elites—who happen to get off being whipped and fisted—to tell me the most intimate details of their time with a prostitute, all the while looking for something to hold over Irene Adler's head. Let me reiterate: I have to find something to blackmail someone who _already_ makes a living as a dominatrix."

Just then a notice sounded on Sherlock's mobile phone indicating a text. He looked at it and then immediately looked away in anger. "Goddammit! Damn it all to Hell." He kicked at a box of files and hopped around, nursing his hurt foot.

"Photo number two I presume," John guessed.

"You're not going to look at it."

"I don't want to look at it. I mean I kind of want to look at it, but, no, no I don't. Does it say anything?"

Sherlock looked pained as he brought the phone up to his eyeline once again. He looked at it as though prolonged exposure would make him blind.

"Seventy-seven days to bring me home."

* * *

After their dinner—a marvelous delicacy from Bangkok—Molly and Mycroft settled in for a game of chess. After being defeated in only an hour, Mycroft demanded best of three. Early into the second game, Mycroft picked up his rook, preparing to move it.

"Ohhhh, I wouldn't do that. If you do that, I have check-mate in three more turns," Molly offered helpfully.

"What? How? That's impossible." So Molly moved her fingers around the board, showing him how she'd do it. He was flabbergasted. But he put his rook down and continued to think through his next move. "So," he began gingerly, "has Sherlock discussed your case with you at all?"

"Ugh, no. I'm not sure why he's being so secretive, but it's not worth all the bickering trying to get him to share information with me. I just gave up. I imagine he's being protective because of the photos. You know about the photos, don't you?" She blushed.

"Yes, I do. I'm sorry."

"It's alright. As John always says, 'it is what it is.' Sherlock probably thinks I'm too fragile to hear about how far and wide those photos have been disseminated. Honestly, he might be right." She laughed humorlessly.

"You can trust Sherlock to stop at nothing to protect you, Molly."

"I know."

"So, have you, um . . . mentioned to Sherlock my little slip of the tongue?"

"No, of course not."

"I should have known. I _am_ still alive, after all," Mycroft said with a smile. Molly laughed with real humor.

"It's alright, Mycroft. I already knew."

"You did?" Mycroft asked, in surprise.

"Pretty much. I'm not stupid. You can only willingly ignore so many signs."

"Like the phone call?"

"The phone call. And the way he looks at me sometimes. And there are certain physiological signs that are hard to mistake for anything else."

"So . . . " But Mycroft found he didn't know what to say.

"So 'what now'? Is that what you want to ask?" Mycroft nodded. She thought for a second and said, "Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Well, what _can_ I do? I can't force him to be in a relationship if he doesn't want to be."

"You can hit him over the head with a frying pan, see if that does any good."

Laughing, Molly said, "I might consider that. But, really, for whatever reason, he doesn't want me like that. And there's nothing I can do about it." Here, she teared up a bit. "Maybe when this case is all over, he might . . . but I doubt it. Anyway it doesn't matter, I've been in love with him for a decade now. I'm not in any hurry. Got all the time in the world."

Mycroft looked at Molly sadly, knowing precisely what she did not know, that she did not, in fact, have all the time in the world.

* * *

Before she left Mycroft's home after the second chess game ended in her favor, she let Mycroft convince her to stay for the opening of a bottle of port he'd been given as a gift from some Lordship or other, so that when she returned to Baker Street, she found herself later and a little more tipsy than she had intended. She walked into the flat to see Sherlock still immersed in files.

"You're late," Sherlock said without looking up, annoyance in his voice.

"Mycroft insisted on playing chess."

Sherlock looked at his watch. "Well, you must have hung in there for a while. That's quite impressive. Mycroft is nearly as good a player as I am. You should feel proud."

"Actually," she said with a yawn, "he insisted on best two of three. He really needs to improve his use of the rook. He wastes them every time."

"Are you . . . are you saying that you beat my brother . . . at chess . . . twice?"

"Well, three times including the one game of it we played here. He really has good instincts, though," Molly said, through a yawn.

Sherlock couldn't help but look stunned. "Perhaps he's not used to playing against women. Maybe your breasts distracted him."

"Sherlock!"

He rose from his chair and motioned for her to sit down across from him at his chess table. She shook her head. "No, Sherlock. I have to work tomorrow and I've had too much wine and port tonight. I'm tired."

"I'll make tea. That'll wake you up."

Molly threw up her hands in surrender and sat down at the chess board. Sherlock walked over to the kitchen to prepare tea. Molly noticed him limping. "What's wrong with your leg?"

"Nothing is wrong with my leg. My foot, however, had an argument with one of the boxes in the living room this morning. I broke my big toe."

"Do you want me to look at it?"

"No, John looked at it." Soon Sherlock returned with the tea and they began playing chess. An hour later, Sherlock was sulking and Molly was getting up to finally go to bed.

"I hope you weren't too distracted by my breasts," Molly said, to a glowering Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **My initial estimate for number of chapters was around 24. Yeah, that's not going to happen. I hope everyone is entertained enough to stay with the story for around 30 chapters or so.


	21. Ten Weeks and Three Days Ago. 221B Baker Street

**Ten Weeks and Three Days Ago. 221B Baker Street**

Just as Molly and Sherlock, joined this morning by John, were finishing up breakfast, Mycroft came strolling in the open door to the flat.

"Love what you're done with the place, Sherlock," Mycroft said, waving his hands at the paper-strewn living area.

"It wouldn't have to look like that if your office didn't have more holes than a golf course," Sherlock shot back. "Why are you here, Mycroft?"

Mycroft turned to Molly, "I felt bad about keeping you out so late last night so I thought I'd drop by and offer you a ride to St. Bart's."

"Well, that's very nice of you, but you know that the security you've provided me gives me rides anywhere I want, right?"

"Yes, but they can't change the color of the traffic lights to insure ease of transport, I can," Mycroft said, not without some hint of pride.

"Um, well then, sure, how can I turn that offer down?"

"It's easy," Sherlock said, "just say, 'sod off, creep.'"

"Sherlock!" Molly chided. Far from offended though, Mycroft just smiled at his brother. "I'll just be a minute," Molly said, swallowing what remained of her tea, gathering her bag, and walking toward the door of the flat.

"This really can't be comfortable here now, with this all this clutter in the living area, Molly. You're welcome to stay at my house if you'd prefer," Mycroft said to her.

Molly looked back at Sherlock, who looked like he was ready to throttle his brother right there, and then turned back to Mycroft. "No, really, it's fine, but thank you for the kind offer."

"Offer stands. Um, Molly, I'll be down in a moment. I just need to have a word with my brother." So Molly went on ahead down to Mycroft's car. When Molly was out of earshot, he turned to Sherlock. "Sherlock, I think it's very cruel not to prepare Molly for the possible eventuality here."

John stood up from the table and inquired of Mycroft, "What exactly is the possible eventuality?"

"You haven't even told John?"

"No, because it's not a possibility. I will find another solution," Sherlock said confidently.

"What eventuality?" John demanded.

"Witness protection. Molly would receive a new identity and would be relocated to another country," Mycroft explained.

"How . . . how likely is this?" John asked.

"No chance." — "Quite likely," Sherlock and Mycroft said over one another.

"Oh Jesus and she has no idea? When exactly are you planning on springing this on her, Sherlock?"

"Never!"

"She'll want to say goodbye to family and friends, make plans, prepare. At the very least she'll need time to process it," John said angrily.

"It won't be necessary. I will find a way to bring Irene Adler to her knees."

"Do you hear yourself, mate? You're going to bring a dominatrix to her knees? She has a little more experience than you do at accomplishing that."

Mycroft spoke again. "Sherlock, I promised to give you time. And I'll keep my promise, I will, but I think we need a timeline of when Molly should be told, when we need to prepare her for that eventuality and start planning an exit strategy and a new life for her."

"I and I alone will determine when and if and what exactly Molly will be told," Sherlock spat back angrily.

Mycroft sighed in frustration. "We will revisit this question, Sherlock, and soon," he said and left the flat.

Once down in his car, Molly asked Mycroft, "You just said that bit about me staying at your house to annoy Sherlock, didn't you?"

"No, it was a genuine offer. Annoying Sherlock is just an added bonus."

* * *

Both men went about their respective research. John was having almost no luck identifying potential leakers and Sherlock was having almost the opposite: too many clients. At times he felt like he'd have to interrogate one-third of Britain's perverts.

That night, Molly made good on her promise to cook a thoroughly British meal and served Shepherd's Pie to Sherlock, John, and Mrs. Hudson, while Rosie ate her peas and apple sauce. The meal met with Sherlock's complete approval because it was a meal composed half of potatoes, even though they weren't of the deep fried variety.

Once they were alone again, the dishes cleaned and put away in the maniacal order (to Sherlock's mind) imposed on them by Molly and Mycroft, Sherlock looked out upon the state of his living area and decided upon stacking and ordering things to allow more comfort for Molly. He told himself that he would have decided upon such politeness for his guest even if Mycroft hadn't made the impertinent offer of taking Molly to his own house.

So when Molly emerged from the bedroom in her sleep clothes with a book in hand, she startled at the quick rearrangement. And Sherlock explained, a little sheepishly, "So you can lie on the sofa and read, if you like."

"Thank you, Sherlock, that's . . . very kind of you."

Instead of sitting down in his own customary chair, he sat on one end of the sofa while Molly sat lengthwise on the other end, her legs just slightly bent as to not touch Sherlock's leg with them. For some time, each of them sat reading their respective materials in silence. Eventually, Sherlock's eyes wandered to Molly's bare legs and the adorable shorts she wore to bed on warmer nights.

He cleared his throat and said, "You're all squished up, why don't put your feet up on my lap. If you want, that is."

"Ok, sure. Thank you," Molly said, even though she really wasn't that squished up at all, being of such short stature. And so she put her feet on Sherlock's leg and returned, a little more distracted, to her book. For his part, Sherlock tried to return his focus to identifying Adler's seemingly endless client list, but he found he wanted to talk to Molly.

"What . . . what are you reading?"

" _A Town Like Alice_. Neville Shute."

"I've only ever read his book _On the Beach_. Is it good so far?"

"Oh, this is, like, the seventh time I've read it. It's one of my favorites. It has one of the most remarkable heroines in all of literature."

"I should read it myself then when I have a chance."

"You can have it when I'm done, if you like."

"Thank you."

She went back to her book. Sherlock thought back to the awful scene this morning with Mycroft and John, throwing in his face the unwelcome possibility that Molly could be taken from her life—from him—and given a new life far away and, although he had thoroughly dismissed the possibility, he couldn't help the nagging doubts deep within him that it might indeed come to that miserable end. "Molly? Did you ever want to be anything besides a pathologist?"

Molly thought about his question. "Well, I always knew I wanted to be some sort of doctor. I certainly wouldn't have guessed I'd end up a pathologist."

"Why did you?"

"Can you imagine me with living patients?"

"Why not?" Sherlock asked, genuinely puzzled.

"Well, my stutter was still quite pronounced even into medical school and, as you yourself have noted, conversation really isn't my thing."

Had he really said that? Yes, he remembered it. Right before the fall. The fall, the fall. That's when I fell in love with you, Molly, he thought to himself. She'd said "oh, I don't count" and it broke his heart. He'd really looked at her for the first time then, saw how kind she was, how pretty she was, and how unassuming she was, unlike anyone he'd ever known.

"Your patients would adore you, Molly. Everyone who meets you does. Even Mycroft, who only has a reptilian brain, likes you. And he doesn't like anyone."

"Sherlock! I swear it would take Freud himself to unpack the bizarre relationship you have with your brother." They both laughed. "What about you? What did you want to be?"

"A pirate." Molly laughed appreciatively.

"So is there nothing else you could see yourself doing that would make you happy?"

"I don't think so, no."

"Why?"

"I didn't want to be ordinary. I wanted to be great, to be the best at something. I wanted people to know my name, to see me and say 'there goes a truly remarkable mind.'"

"Sherlock, I don't think you could have ever been ordinary, no matter what path you would have taken." She smiled generously at him.

He stared at Molly, thinking: be nicer to her, Sherlock—you won't meet anyone near so wonderful ever again.

* * *

And so John and Sherlock continued their research each day, with John's frustration at his lack of progress growing by the day and Sherlock preparing to soon confront Adler's clients in search of the allusive pressure point that would give him his check-mate, all the while conscious that time kept mercilessly moving forward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Nevil Shute's "A Town Like Alice" is one of the most undervalued works of literature out there. Believe Molly when she says the novel's heroine is simply inspiring to the core. Read it. Seriously, go buy it now.


	22. Ten Weeks Ago. St. Bart's Pathology Lab

**Ten Weeks Ago. St. Bart's Pathology Lab**

Sherlock had had an awful morning. He visited two clients of "The Woman," all to no avail. On the whole, he'd learned to prefer the ones that attempted to deny their involvement than the ones that were upfront and honest about it. At least with the first type of client, he could be assured of less lurid and disgusting details.

He arrived at St. Bart's hoping to catch Molly before she had had lunch. For the past several days, he had been making a concerted effort to be a kinder, gentler Sherlock when it came to her. When he approached the lab, he did as he often did: he watched her through the glass in the door. He enjoyed watching her in unguarded moments. And he was rewarded today, for Molly had her headphones on while she filled vials with various chemicals. She appeared to be singing along with whatever she was listening to. He crept in, trying not alert her to his presence right away.

She was singing with abandon: "Hey now, you're an all-star, get your game on, go play / Hey now, you're a rock star, get the show on, get paid / And all that glitters is gold / Only shooting stars break the mold."

Sherlock smiled uncontrollably. Finally he slid into her view, causing her to jump back in embarrassment and rip the headphones off her own head.

"Damn it, Sherlock. You scared me."

"Sorry, I was just enjoying the show." Molly blushed. "Don't stop on my account."

"You're a jerk."

"What? I said I was enjoying it."

"Yeah, enjoying watching me make an idiot of myself."

"Not even a little bit."

She smiled in spite of herself. "What can I do for you, Sherlock?"

"Restore my faith in humanity."

"How can I do that?"

"Have lunch with me."

"It's that easy, is it?"

"Probably not, but I'm going to be out late tonight, probably conversing with utterly horrifying people, so I won't see you at dinner."

"Yeah, ok. Which chips shop were you thinking of?"

"Actually, I wasn't thinking chips shop."

"Ugh, I need more than vending machine crisps, Sherlock."

"No, no, I mean a real lunch. I've heard of a good curry restaurant near here."

Molly raised her eyebrows in surprise. "Curry?"

"It's an Indian flavor profile that . . . "

"Yes, I know what curry is. And you want to eat it?"

"With you, yes."

"Is this some kind of game or test or . . . "

"No. I just thought you might like a change."

"Yes, but you hate change."

"I don't _hate_ it, exactly."

"Sherlock? What's going on?"

"Nothing. Why? Is Mycroft the only one that's allowed to feed you interesting things?"

Oh, thought Molly, Sherlock doesn't like sharing anyone. He likes being the center of attention. "Sherlock," Molly said gently, "you're not in competition with Mycroft or anyone else. I don't want you to be anyone else but you."

"Of course, I know that," Sherlock said, unconvincingly, clearing his throat.

"Good, now let's go get some chips. But you're having a salad with them if I have to shove it down your gullet."

"I thought you just said you didn't want me to be anyone else?"

"Yes, but I also want you not to die of clotted arteries before you're fifty. I have a specimen heart from someone that died of heart disease, don't make me pull it out."

* * *

Every time John thought he had a potential suspect for the leaks to Irene Adler, something would completely dash his hopes. With so many names still to investigate, John had become a little manic trying to work as fast or even faster than humanly possible. And while he felt the need to work quickly for Molly's sake, he also worried that he'd miss something important in the headlong rush to achieve maximum coverage.

Sherlock had told him that he'd be away most of that evening interviewing more of Adler's clients. He could tell that Sherlock felt ill at ease discussing aberrant sexual practices so frankly. Hell, John thought, Sherlock felt ill at ease discussing any sexual practices. He wondered if he and Sherlock should change assignments for a few days. He didn't want to hear about these people's sexual fetishes either, but maybe Sherlock needed a break. However, he didn't think Sherlock would relinquish control of that portion of the investigation because the detective believed that finding Irene Adler's mythical weakness held the greatest promise in the efforts save Molly.

Looking for the leak was part of the back-up plan, the one Sherlock didn't even want to acknowledge. To Sherlock, finding the leak only meant punishment for the person who gave "The Woman" the Sherrinford file. For John and Mycroft, by contrast, finding the leak might mean the difference between Molly being able to live safely in protection far away from London or being hunted for the rest of her life.

With Rosie napping downstairs at Mrs. Hudson's, John stayed later at the flat than usual, driving himself as hard as he could. Sometimes, when he found himself alone with Molly at Baker Street, he'd find himself wondering whether allowing Sherlock to dictate the boundaries of Molly's knowledge had been the right choice. But, alas, there were no good choices here, he thought, dimly.

* * *

"John, you're still here," Sherlock said, sounding bedraggled and beyond miserable. John looked up at Sherlock standing in the doorway and then to his watch.

"Oh Jesus, yeah, I should go soon." But then Sherlock came hobbling into the flat, apparently in a great deal of pain. Both John and Molly, who had come out of the bedroom at the sound of Sherlock's voice, saw the pronounced limp at the same time.

"Sherlock, I thought your foot was better. Your limp looks worse than ever," John said.

"It's not my foot," Sherlock said with evident annoyance as he walked past John and Molly to the kitchen. Once there, he opened the freezer, looked around, and not exactly seeing what he wanted, took a package of frozen vegetables out and walked with it toward his chair in the living room.

"What happened?" Molly asked with concern.

"A woman ground her stiletto heal into my groin," Sherlock confessed as he walked slowly and awkwardly. John let out a commiserating cry at that image and his hand went to cover his own groin, out of instinct. As Sherlock passed John, he whispered to him out of range of Molly's ears, "Apparently she's no longer a submissive."

Sherlock sat down with a moan and proceeded to place the bag of frozen vegetables on his crotch. Molly and John looked at each, confused.

"Oh Sherlock, are you alright?" Molly asked.

"Umm, I'm going to say a big fat no to that."

"John, you should examine it," Molly suggested. John looked horrified.

"Why do you hate me, Molly?" John glowered at her. Sherlock waved her suggestion off as well.

"Either John looks at it or I do," Molly demanded.

Sherlock threw his head back, in both exhaustion and resignation. "Well, you have done the impossible, Molly Hooper, you've convinced me that there is indeed a God and that he hates me. Come now, John, look at my cock." Sherlock stood from the chair and started toward the bathroom.

Now it was John's turn to throw back his head in frustration. If I'd only left an hour earlier, he thought.


	23. Nine Weeks and Four Days Ago. 221B Baker Street

**Nine Weeks and Four Days Ago. 221B Baker Street**

He could get used to this, Sherlock thought: coming home to find a beautiful, smiling woman waiting happily to see him, to ask him how he was, to eat dinner with him, to laugh with him, to sit in companionable silence reading along side him, to nag him about his diet, to care for him. But, one way or the other, when this case came to its end, so did this arrangement. Selfishly, part of him wished Irene Adler had given him a twelve year deadline instead of twelve weeks, not only because he and John were both failing spectacularly in their respective assignments so far, but because, despite all the pressure and tension the case was causing him, a part of him really loved this time with Molly.

This part of the day, in particular, the time between dinner and bedtime, was proving to be one of Sherlock's favorites. He and Molly had settled into a kind of routine. They cleared the table, washed the dishes, and read or talked together in the living room. Having just cleared the table and being especially tired this evening after interviewing some five of Irene Adler's clients during the day, he proposed to Molly that they just let the dishes sit in the sink overnight, soaking.

"Oh, if you're tired Sherlock, I can do them myself. Don't trouble yourself, really."

"Molly, just let them sit. Just letting them soak in the sink one night will not result in alien mold spores growing all about the flat or some heretofore non-existent virus coming into being."

"I know that. I just might as well do them now, that's all."

"You can't let them sit, can you?"

"I can. I just don't want to."

"Ok, you say you can. I want to see it. I want you to leave them in the sink, dangerously unwashed, until tomorrow."

Molly stood shifting from side to side, a little agitated. "What will that prove?"

"That your OCD is at least manageable. That you don't need medication."

Molly huffed in indignation. "Me? I'm OCD? Me? There's a mirror in your bedroom, Sherlock, go take a look in it."

"We're not talking about me. We're talking about you and your OCD."

"You have some nerve, Sherlock Holmes."

"Just look at your lab, Molly Hooper. It screams OCD."

"It's a lab, Sherlock. Everything should be in it's proper place and be clearly labeled for safety. That's not OCD, that's being responsible."

"Oh dear, the worst ones are always the ones that don't recognize they have a problem."

"I don't have a problem."

"Really? You want to take a look at my cabinets?"

"Ugh. You're still on about that."

"Ok, prove you're not OCD. Leave the dishes overnight. Live dangerously."

"Fine," she said, a little sulkily.

"Fine," he said in response and then he saw Molly make a break for the sink, but he caught her around the waist, making her squeal. "Aha! You can't do it, not for one night." She was laughing hard in his arms and then he seemed to realize that he was holding her completely, so he let her go, against his own inner will.

"Really, Sherlock. I'll don't mind doing them myself if you're especially tired tonight."

He glowered at her. "Move over, Dr. Hooper, I'll wash, you dry."

"Fine, Mr. Holmes."

That command—"I'll wash, you dry"—never had such a seemingly innocuous statement had such a catastrophic result, Sherlock thought later. Why, why hadn't he said the opposite?

He filled the sink with hot, soapy water to begin to wash the dishes and then hand them to Molly. Still in a playful mood, he splashed her with the water from time to time, teasing her and making her laugh. Tired or not, he was having fun. Having fun doing the dishes? What is wrong with you, Sherlock, he thought to himself.

About half way through cleaning the night's dirty dishes, the text notification sounded on his mobile phone, which was on the table right in back of them. Innocently, Molly said, "I'll check it for you, your hands are all wet." Sherlock thought nothing of it. Then he heard the mobile phone drop to the floor and Molly gasp. Suddenly, he remembered what day it was. There were ten weeks to go.

"Molly!" He yelled, turning around to see her ashen, frozen.

"You fucking bastard," Molly yelled. "You bastard. You've had the photos all this time, been seeing them, and you said nothing!"

"Molly, it's not what you think. I can explain."

Molly covered her mouth, beginning to become hysterical and crying. "All this time. You'd seen them and have been laughing at me or pitying me. That's why you've been so nice! And all this time I thought you . . . I thought you . . . "

"No! That's not right, no! That's not it at all. Molly, please."

Molly gathered up her work bag from the living room and headed for the door. He tried to intercept her and put a restraining hand on her shoulder. "Don't you fucking touch me! Don't you ever fucking touch me again!" She yelled this so loud that the security man outside the door came rushing into the flat and put himself between Molly and Sherlock.

"Let her go," the man demanded.

"Sod off, I just need to talk to her."

"She apparently doesn't want to talk to you." With Sherlock held back, Molly ran out the door and down the steps. Sherlock tried to get around the much larger and more muscular guard by ill-advisedly attempting to push the man out of the way. The Secret Service man yanked Sherlock violently to the floor and kept him pinned there, unable to fight back.

The man currently pinning Sherlock helplessly to his own flat's floor took out his radio and called out, "Malcolm here. Molly on the move outside. Follow. I repeat: Molly on the move outside. Follow. I have a attacker subdued. I repeat: I have an attacker subdued." Two other men answered on the radio, letting him know they received his message.

"Attacker! Attacker?" Sherlock was apoplectic with rage. "I'm the one protecting her, you moron. Let me go, I have to talk to her."

"We obey her orders, not yours, asshole." Sherlock stopped resisting, realizing that he had no way out of the hold this larger man had on him and starting to feel the pain of having his arm pinned so far and so tightly back behind him. He was in physical agony and yet somehow he knew that greater agonies lie ahead.

* * *

Hours passed since Malcolm, the burly man who had had Sherlock pinned down in his own flat, had let him up with a warning to stay away from Molly unless she initiated contact. Since being released and warned off, he paced his flat endlessly, trying to construct a narrative for Molly that could explain the photo text in a way that didn't give up the whole awful game. Finally satisfied with his rehearsed speech, he took a taxi to Molly's flat, believing that that might be where she had gone after leaving Baker Street.

He walked up to the main door of the building, but, before he reached it, a Secret Service man, a different one from the man who had tackled him earlier, grabbed him from behind.

"You need to leave, sir. Or you will be detained."

"Mycroft Holmes is my brother. Call him. I need to talk to Molly."

"We have been in touch with Mr. Holmes. We've been directed to respect Dr. Hooper's wishes not to see you."

"What? What!" Sherlock couldn't hide his sense of betrayal. He looked up at the windows he knew to be Molly's and started to yell, "Molly! Molly! I need to talk to you."

"What did I just say?" The man reached into his pocket and gave an order on his radio. Seconds later, a car pulled up and he was manhandled into it and whisked away to a private government detainment facility for the night.

* * *

Sherlock didn't sleep at all in the cell. He laid there awake, stewing in his own anger and self-reproach until the morning came. Then he heard the doors to the outer cell open and the sound of footsteps. So he stood up, knowing just who those footsteps belonged to.

Mycroft Holmes and John Watson came into Sherlock's cell, both of them looking sad and disappointed. As angry as he was at Mycroft's betrayal of the previous night, he had more important things with which to deal right now.

"I need to see Molly."

"That's not going to happen unless she wants to see you, brother."

"I have to explain. She saw the text, the photo. I have to explain to her . . . "

"We will be explaining everything to her today," Mycroft said.

Sherlock looked concerned. "Everything? You don't mean everything . . . "

"Yes, everything Sherlock," John said. "We were wrong to keep all this from her. Surely you must see that yourself by now."

"No, I have to be the one . . . "

"No!" John yelled. "She doesn't want to talk to you, Sherlock. We haven't been respecting her throughout this whole case and it's about time we started. She needs to know and she needs to prepare."

"You're giving up," Sherlock said, feeling betrayed first by his own brother and now by John.

"No, we still have time to work on other solutions, but you have to admit: so far we've gotten nowhere, mate. We have to plan for contingencies."

"No, I won't let it come to that."

"You might not have a choice. There's a very real chance we might fail. And then what? How long do we wait? She needs to know, Sherlock."

The detective just shook his head. "I need to go there. Talk to her, make her understand."

Here Mycroft spoke again. "The members of he Secret Service detail have been ordered to follow her wishes on all things. If you attempt to see her, you will be forcibly detained again."

Sherlock looked at his brother with seething rage. "You son of a bitch. Your plans are going to get her killed."

"My plans? My plans? May I remind you that her life wouldn't be in danger at all if you hadn't let your infantile infatuation with Irene Adler cloud your judgment in the first place? She's alive because of you, Sherlock. And if she manages to kill Molly, that'll be on you!"

Sherlock hauled off and punched Mycroft in the face. First John, then prison guards, wrestled him away and down to the ground.

"Let him up," Mycroft eventually told John and the guards, while nursing the side of his head. "He's more of a danger to himself than he is to me."

John walked over close to Sherlock. "Get yourself together, mate. You are out of control. Go back to Baker Street. I'll come by later. But Sherlock, I mean it, go home and don't leave your fucking fucking flat today."


	24. Nine Weeks and Three Days Ago. Molly's Flat

**Nine Weeks and Three Days Ago. Molly's Flat**

Molly Hooper did what she often did when she was upset: cleaned. Maybe there was something to what Sherlock said about her being OCD. She certainly didn't want to think about Sherlock Holmes now. But she found that, no matter how hard she tried, he kept creeping back into her thoughts, unbidden and unwelcome. What was most comical—or tragic, depending upon one's view—about the situation was that, before last night, she had really thought that she and Sherlock had reached a new kind of relationship, not romantic, perhaps, but something special, something more than just friends.

But it had all been a lie, she thought bitterly now. What she had read as respect, fondness, and even love, she now knew had all been Sherlock's overwhelming pity for her. She was just another client with a problem to solve. She felt disgusted and disgust _ing_ , thinking of him looking clinically and coldly at those photos and never letting on to her that he had seen them. She imagined him looking at them with that harsh glare of superiority and rank disapproval he had. And what was worse? She couldn't blame him. She had been so weak, so eager to please, that she failed to heed her own better judgment. Sherlock could never be so needy for someone's else's love, for someone's else approval, that he'd do anything even remotely comparable. But now he knew that she could, would, and had been that needy. And he could never really love someone like that.

In the midst of scrubbing the bathroom tiles, she heard the knocks on the door. For a panicked second, she wondered if it could be Sherlock, but remembered Mycroft's guarantee that her guards would keep him away from her until, or if, she was ever ready to see him again.

When she opened her door, she was surprised to see Mycroft and John standing together. It was an odd pairing and, seeing them together here, at her flat, presaged nothing good.

"Hello Molly," Mycroft began, as Molly waved them both into her flat.

"Molly," John said softly, by way of hello.

"Well, this can't be good," Molly said, matter-of-factly. She then noticed the early signs of a shiner on the side of Mycroft's face. She moved toward him and lightly touched it. "Mycroft, what happened?" He didn't answer, but instead just looked sadly at her. She knew. "Sherlock."

"Yes," he admitted.

"Did it have to do with me?"

"Don't worry about that, Molly. I, that is, we . . . " he said, gesturing to John and himself, " . . . have to discuss something with you."

"If you're here to defend Sherlock or plead his case, I . . . "

"Molly," John interrupted, "please sit down. We need to tell you what's going on. We shouldn't have waited this long."

Sensing John's seriousness, she did as he asked. And they started to tell her what she should have known all along: the story of her case from the moment it began to now. Molly sat and listened to the whole sorted affair, calmer than either of the men thought possible. By the end, her eyes were red-rimmed from the tears, but otherwise, she appeared composed and in control.

John, sitting down next to her on her sofa, tried to offer her some hope while still remaining objective and cautious. "Molly, you and I have both witnessed Sherlock pull off his share of miracles. Don't count him out yet. He still has time to find a way to keep you here and safe."

"Yes, I too pray that Sherlock may triumph once again," Mycroft added, "but, in the meantime, we need to prepare."

"Yes, yes, I understand," Molly said softly.

"I'll try to involve as few people as possible in developing plans for your relocation, your new identity, your new profession, your extraction, etc. The less people in on the planning and execution, the safer you'll be."

"Thank you," Molly said, with flat affect.

"I suggest you not begin saying your goodbyes to friends and family until we have a firm extraction date planned. Is there anything else you need right now?" Mycroft asked.

"No," Molly said, but the two men looked at each other, wondering how much of what they had told her this morning had really sunk in.

"You know how to reach me, Molly," Mycroft said, "I mean it when I say you can call me night or day."

"Yes, thank you Mycroft."

"I should take your leave now. John, may I offer you a ride somewhere?"

"No, thank you, Mycroft. Actually, I'd like to stay and chat with Molly for a bit." Mycroft nodded and then walked over to Molly and placed a gentle kiss on her forehead before departing.

"Relocation," "new identity," "new profession," "extraction"—Molly couldn't believe this was her life now.

"Molly? I wanted to . . . I wanted to . . . " John's voice broke. "I'm sorry I've failed you, Molly." Molly looked at him, confused. "Sherlock tasked me with finding out who leaked the Sherrinford file, to find out who might still be able to feed Irene Adler potential information about you after you're relocated. And I've failed."

"John, please don't . . . "

"No, please listen to me," John interrupted her, "I'm going to keep looking, but I need to address the very real possibility that I won't ever find the leaker. Listen carefully to me, Molly. Once you are wherever you end up, you still need to be vigilant. If you get even the least little bit uncomfortable about something, if you see anything that makes you uneasy, you call Mycroft and get the fuck out of there. Listen to your instincts, above all." Molly put her hand on top of John's and he then pulled her into a tight hug.

* * *

Sherlock arrived back at 221B Baker Street in a state of unbridled mania. He attempted to call Molly several times on his mobile phone and, when he kept getting her voice mail, he switched to texting her, begging to talk to her, to see her. Nothing. He took his frustration out on the boxes of records strewn throughout his living area. He told himself: he'd go over every single fucking document in this flat two, three times if he had to.

He wouldn't sleep. He'd cook up his own batch of amphetamines designed to keep himself awake eighteen to twenty hours a day. It didn't matter what damage he'd be doing to his body, he thought. He had less than ten weeks to save Molly anyway. He could keep himself alive and working for ten weeks if he was careful in making the right drug cocktail.

Later that day, John made good on his promise to come by. He looked almost as bad as Sherlock did.

"So, you've told her?" Sherlock said, angrily.

"Yes, everything. She should have been told everything right from the start, Sherlock."

"How . . . how is she? How . . . how did she take it?"

"Hard to tell. She's in shock, I should imagine. But she's a strong woman. She can handle more than you give her credit for."

"I didn't want her to have to."

"I know, mate. I know."

Sherlock started to tear up, but stopped himself, straightened up, and assumed the manic disposition he'd been in prior to John's arrival. "Ok, we need to redouble our efforts. We still have almost ten weeks."

"Redouble? Sherlock, we've both reached our capacity. Effort is not the issue here."

"Yes, misspoke. You have reached your capacity, John. You've been an admirable soldier. No one could fault you on your extraordinary level of commitment. I, on the other hand, can expand myself beyond my usual limitations."

"What? How?" John asked, incredulous. Sherlock didn't answer him and, with that silence, John just knew what Sherlock was planning. "No, NO! You're not taking drugs."

"John, listen to me."

"No, Sherlock, absolutely not!"

"I can create a carefully-calibrated amphetamine cocktail that would allow me to subsist on as little as four hours sleep. And you're a doctor, you can monitor me."

"This is not going to happen, Sherlock. I'm serious. I won't allow it."

"You can't . . . "

"Stop you?" John interrupted him. "No, not me alone. But I'll have you piss into a cup every fucking day and if you test positive, I'll have Mycroft lock you in a cell until after Irene Adler's deadline."

"You wouldn't."

"Try me." Sherlock picked up a large box of documents and heaved them at the wall.

* * *

Later that evening, after John had fed his daughter and put her to sleep, he went through his personal address book, looking for the name of an old friend from medical school who had become a well-regarded psychiatrist. He only saw him every few years for lunch or through mutual acquaintances, but John had always liked and admired him. Plus, at least he knew Arthur Doyle wasn't really Euros Holmes in disguise. He had that going for him.

He doubted Sherlock would go willingly to see a psychiatrist, but perhaps the threat of him walking out on the detective during Molly's investigation could compel him. It would be a bluff, of course. Yet, he had to do something. Sherlock was coming unglued, walking dangerously on a precipice.

So John kept his old friend's number on his person for the next two weeks as he drug-tested Sherlock daily, as promised, and watched as the detective seemed to get more and more manic daily. As the clock kept ticking for Molly, John wondered if Sherlock's mental state might even be interfering with the detective's ability to perform the investigation.

Finally, John could take no more uncertainty about Sherlock and gave him an ultimatum. He'd made the appointment with Dr. Doyle on Sherlock's behalf and told him to show up to the session or else.

The rest would be up to Sherlock.


	25. Three Days Ago. Dr. Arthur Doyle's House, Marylebone

**Three Days Ago. Dr. Arthur Doyle's House, Marylebone**

Sherlock found it difficult to fathom how two and a half months had passed since the day Molly first received the package that served as the genesis of this case. Seventy-three days of investigating thousands of government employees, questioning hundreds of Irene Adler's clients, reading endless surveillance reports and bank account statements. Yet, here he was, only ten days left to the deadline imposed by that dominatrix and—nothing, he had nothing.

He and John had had vague suspicions about the possible source of the leak—an IT specialist here, an MI-6 autocrat there—but nothing actionable. All had withstood their respective interrogations. And finding that elusive "pressure point" that would tip the scales against Adler and in their favor just never materialized. Worse, Sherlock, with ten days remaining, less until Molly's planned extraction (he hadn't been told the exact date and time of her leave-taking, but he knew they wouldn't wait until the very day of the deadline itself) had begun to feel a creeping sense of hopelessness. He simply didn't know what to do or where to look next. So he made a desperate move.

Someone who was clearly some kind of housekeeper or home health worker or some mix of the two answered the door at Dr. Doyle's modest Marylebone Victorian townhouse. Sherlock had been surprised to find that the good doctor only lived two streets away from himself all this time.

"Hello, may I please speak to Dr. Doyle?" Sherlock asked the woman who opened the door, who currently wore an apron, suggesting she might have been cooking when the buzzer rang.

"Which one?"

"Excuse me?"

"There are two Dr. Doyles in this house."

"Oh, um, I don't actually know what his first name is," Sherlock said, demonstrating once again his capacity to overlook the most basic of information about someone.

"If it's a him, that's Arthur. I'll go get him."

A few seconds later, Dr. Doyle himself appeared at the door with a very confused look on his face upon seeing Sherlock. Sherlock wouldn't have recognized the doctor if he'd seen him around the neighborhood in Marylebone if this was way he dressed when not seeing patients, for the doctor was wearing blue denims and a black Ramones t-shirt. At least denims and a t-shirt pretty much always matched, thought Sherlock.

"Sherlock? Um . . . what are you doing here?" Doyle asked.

"I need your help."

"Well, I don't really see patients in my home . . . "

"It's about the case I'm working on, Molly's case. I need your advise on it."

"I see. Come in, come in." Sherlock did as told. "We're just about to sit down to eat dinner. Anna always makes too much, so you're welcome to join us."

"Oh, I'm so sorry to bother you then. I can come back in an hour."

"Nonsense. Please join us. It would really mean a lot to my wife. She's such a big fan of John's blog. Makes me read every new entry to her as soon as it's updated."

"Well, ok then."

"Wonderful," the doctor said, and then turned to call his housekeeper/home health worker, "Anna, set one more for dinner." To Sherlock, who he was showing to the dining area, he said, "Anna helps my wife during the day when I'm at work and she also cooks dinner." Sherlock just nodded. "Em, dear?"

"Yes? Who's here Arthur?" It was the voice of a woman, undoubtedly Doyle's wife. She came into view when Sherlock entered the dining area following his psychiatrist. She was a lovely, distinguished-looking woman, but Sherlock could nonetheless see the effects of MS upon her. Her left hand was knotted up. Her eyeline followed the sounds of noises, a tell-tale sign of her blindness. Along the wall behind her were wrist-crutches and a wheelchair.

"Emily, may I introduce you to Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes, my wife, Emily Doyle."

She brightened. "Are you kidding? Is this some kind of practical joke on me, Arthur?"

"No, it's no joke. This is _the_ Sherlock Holmes, dear. He's um . . . um, he's asked me to consult on a case he's working on." Sherlock appreciated the man's discretion.

"Really? This is so exciting." She stuck her right hand out for Sherlock to shake, which he did.

"It is very nice to meet you, Mrs. Doyle. Actually, I am to understand from the woman that answered the door that you're a Dr. Doyle yourself."

"Yes. Ph.D, though. So don't ask me for any medical advice. If you need to know about the history of verb conjugation in Romance languages, however, I'm your girl."

"Emily Doyle? You mean you're the Emily Doyle that wrote _Language as a Prison of the Mind: Understanding Cultures Using Sociolinguistics?_ "

"You know my book?"

"Yes, I find it fascinating. And useful as a detective. That idea that linguistic choices show the way a person's brain works, which in turn reveals the cultural assumptions they were raised under? Endlessly useful. Your investigation of the English development of the future perfect tense alone . . . "

"Dinner's ready," the woman called Anna announced and all three of them sat down to eat.

"Well, I'm so unbelievably flattered, Mr. Holmes. My head will probably swell to five times it's natural size now that I know Sherlock Holmes and read and approved of my book."

"Great," her husband said fondly, "now you won't fit through doorways."

"I have to say, I am a huge fan of yours. I make Arthur read every new update to his old friend John Watson's blog. I make him do it in different voices to indicate different characters. Arthur, let Mr. Holmes hear your impression of him. He does you so well."

Here, her husband was slightly embarrassed. "Oh, Emily, I doubt Mr. Holmes wants to hear that."

Intrigued by how he might sound to his own psychiatrist, Sherlock said, "No, I'd love to hear it. By all means."

Doyle sighed and then assumed a stiffer posture and affected a pedantic tone to his voice, "Why it's elementary, my dear Watson. Surely you yourself smelled the faint aroma of brackish water on the suspect, suggesting that he's recently been near the conjunction of the sea and inland water. Thus, he is our killer." Doyle ended his impression with a flourish.

Sherlock smiled but narrowed his eyes. "Is that how I come across in John's blog?"

Both man and wife said simultaneously, "Yes."

"Perhaps I should exercise greater editorial control over John's blog in the future. Because I don't think I've ever said anything like that in my life."

"In any case," began Mrs. Doyle, "I have to ask you, I've been dying to know for years now, as a sociolinguist, what was it about the man's use of the word 'hound' in that Baskerville business that interested you in his case?"

All during dinner, Sherlock answered Mrs. Doyle's fangirl questions happily, beguiling her with the charm he was sometimes known to evince when playing the role of the world's greatest detective, even though, in his heart right now, he was no such thing.

During the meal, Sherlock noticed that, while both himself and his doctor had huge slices of roast beef on their plate, the doctor's wife's meat had been pre-cut-up for her by Anna, likely because of her inability to use her left hand. At one point, her husband noticed that several pieces were still too large and leaned over to cut them into smaller bits for her to chew easily. The easy and silent gesture touched Sherlock.

At the end of the meal, he warmly thanked both Doyles for their hospitality and followed his doctor into his study.

* * *

The Doyles' study contained an impressive library indeed, a lifetime's worth of accumulation of diverse knowledge, no doubt, between two intellectual giants in their respective fields. Sherlock felt real sadness knowing that MS had likely taken away the woman's ability to read almost all the books in this library except for a very few, only the most popular ones that may have made it onto audiobook form.

Doyle sat behind his desk and Sherlock sat across from him in a comfortable arm chair.

"You said this was about the case, Sherlock. That you needed some advice about it?"

"Yes, but first I need to tell you the whole story of the case." And Sherlock did tell him everything. For his part, Doyle sat in rapt attention, absorbing the details, equal parts fascinated and disturbed.

When Sherlock had finished, Doyle sat quietly at his desk chair for some minutes, looking quite troubled, before saying, "Well, this is all quite, quite distressing. But, how can I be of use to you in this case, Sherlock?"

"Help me understand the psychology of Irene Adler. Psychoanalyze her. Help me find a weakness, something I can say that might touch her conscience, if she has one."

Dr. Doyle furrowed his brow, stood up from his chair, and moved around to sit on the edge of his desk, close to where Sherlock sat. "Sherlock, I could give you only rudimentary comments based on second-hand impressions of this woman. Psychoanalysis is a long process of delving into a person little by little."

"But you were able to understand me in only one session."

"Hardly," Doyle laughed, "that's just your impression because you may have achieved some little more knowledge about yourself and have attributed it to me."

"There has to be something I can say to her, something I can do. I can't let Molly go, not now."

"Why 'not now'?"

"Because I know I love her and I want her." Doyle smiled sadly.

"I see. I so very much wish I could help you, Sherlock—help you _and_ Molly. But I'm afraid there is no magic 'open sesame' phrase I can point you to that will unlock this woman's conscience."

"So that's it, then, I've failed. It's really over. She's going to go. And she's going away hating me. I dunno, perhaps that's for the best."

"I'm afraid I'm never one to believe unresolved issues are for the best."

"So what are you saying? I should see her and make her forgive me to assuage my own conscience?"

Doyle shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe frankness and honesty for a change can help you both in some way. Tell me, Sherlock how well has deception and denial served you so far?" Sherlock slumped in the chair. "I really am profoundly sorry I can't be of more help to you, to Molly, with this case business."

"Do you really want to help me, doctor?"

"Well, yes, of course," Doyle said, confused.

"Then what size is the shirt you're wearing and do you have any of what Americans call 'baseball caps'?"


	26. Three Days Ago. Molly's Flat

**Three Days Ago. Molly's Flat**

As disguises go, Sherlock knew his was pretty lame; a Ramones t-shirt and a baseball cap courtesy of Dr. Doyle, a pair of reading glasses from Boots, and copy of the trusty _London A-to-Z_ to make himself look like a tourist were hardly the stuff of master illusion, but he didn't need them to be. He only needed to disguise himself enough not to tip off the two guards within a twenty yard radius of the main door to Molly's building, long enough for him to unlock it and run up to her inside door. Everything else would have to be improvised.

He knew he had only one chance at this. As Molly's building became closer and closer, he readied his key, trying not to draw any attention to himself. He walked closer to the buildings than the curb so that his sudden last-minute jutting off to the right and the door wouldn't take as long. One chance, he thought, I have one chance at this.

When the building was upon him, he made the quick dash right and opened the door. Once inside he hauled it as fast as he could for Molly's door. He was able to get in one knock at her flat's door before he felt himself flying through the air and hitting the landing with a painful thud. It was the same damn guard that had taken him down so many weeks before when Molly had fled his own flat. His only chance now rested with Molly herself.

He started yelling "Molly! Molly! Please I need to talk to you."

"Shut up," the guard said, with his knee planted firmly on Sherlock's back, holding him down. Then he heard the main door of the building open and the two outside guards coming in to help subdue and remove the man they saw entering a few seconds ago.

"Molly!" Sherlock yelled again.

She opened the door and saw Sherlock being pinned to the landing. "Malcolm, let him up. Don't hurt him."

"Ma'am, he rushed in."

"He's no threat to me, Malcolm. Let him up."

Malcolm didn't seem to want to, but he finally let Sherlock stand. "Molly," the detective said, wasting no time, "I need to talk to you. Please."

"Sherlock," Molly said wearily.

"Please give me five minutes. Five minutes."

"I don't think . . . "

"Molly, if I have ever meant anything to you, anything at all, please let me in. Five minutes."

Molly rolled her eyes. "Fine. Five minutes. Malcolm, it's ok."

"Yell if you need me, ma'am," the guard told her. She nodded her agreement.

Once both were inside the flat and the door closed, Molly asked Sherlock if he was hurt. "I don't know, I have so much adrenaline running through me, I can't feel anything but my chest beating." He removed the baseball cap and reading glasses and deposited them on one of Molly's end tables.

"Ok, Sherlock. You asked for five minutes. You have them." Now that he had his moment on stage, he found himself tongue-tied. All his planning had been centered on getting himself into the flat, not on what he was actually going to say once inside it. "Sherlock, you've gone through a lot of trouble getting in here. What do you want to say?" Molly asked.

"Nothing."

" _Nothing_?" Molly was very confused.

"I'm tired of talking. I'm tired of over-thinking everything. But most of all, I'm tired of being scared."

"Scared of what?"

"Of losing you without telling you how I feel."

"How . . . how _do_ you feel, Sherlock?"

"Like this," he said and then walked toward her, grabbed her, and began kissing her. At first, Molly seemed resistant, but soon her breathing quickened and she opened her mouth to let him in. Unlike their first kiss, there would be no running off for Sherlock, not tonight. Their tongues met and a seemingly simultaneous moan escaped from them both.

A second later came a knock upon her door and a concerned Malcolm asked, "Are you alright in there, Molly?"

Sherlock broke off the kiss and yelled back, "Sod off, Martin."

"Malcolm," she corrected him, breathless.

"Sod off, Malcolm," he said then.

"Molly, do you need assistance?" Malcolm asked.

"No, Malcolm, I'm fine," Molly yelled, right before Sherlock took her mouth again. Then he moved on to her ears and neck, eliciting more moans from her. Sherlock thought those moans the most beautiful sounds he'd ever heard.

"I need you Molly. I need to be inside you." This caused Molly to make a quick intake of breath. She stared at Sherlock for several seconds before she dropped to her knees in front of him, undoing his belt and denims and lowering them to the floor, followed by his shorts. Sherlock let out a sound of utter relief at his erection being released from its binding. Then Molly leaned in took the head of his cock into her mouth and Sherlock thought it was the most extraordinary feeling he'd ever experienced. But he immediately realized that, if he allowed Molly to continue, he wouldn't last long at all.

So he leaned down to cup her chin. "Molly, I need to be inside you _now_." She stood up and he kissed her, tasting a little of himself on her mouth and getting—unbelievably, he thought—even more turned on. He lifted her shirt off to reveal her bra and kissed and licked her cleavage, eliciting even more achingly wonderful sounds from her. She reached around her back to unhook the bra, freeing them and causing Sherlock, in turn, to moan as he kissed and sucked at her breasts.

Molly reached up and removed Sherlock's borrowed t-shit. For her part, she was only wearing sweatpants, so Sherlock was able to just hook his thumbs inside the waistband and pull them down. She stepped out of them and then the two of them just stood naked for a few seconds, taking in each other's bodies and breathing heavily. Molly reached up with her hands and pulled Sherlock's face down to her level to kiss him. Then she sat down on the sofa and spread her legs, beckoning him.

"Umm, Molly, I think I should tell you, so that you're prepared. I, um . . . I've never done this before."

She furrowed her brow and said through heavy breaths, "What do you mean? Done what?"

Sherlock, embarrassed, said, "I've never had sex before. You will be my first."

Molly couldn't hide her shock. "Oh my God, Sherlock, I had no idea."

"I don't exactly try to advertise it."

"Are you sure you want to do this?"

"Oh yes. Absolutely yes. It's just that I might not be . . . I'm not sure."

"Ok," she said tenderly and and stood up from the sofa. "Sit down, Sherlock."

"But I really, really want to do this. I know it's not actually, technically possible, but I feel like I might die if I don't do this."

Molly laughed. "Sit down, Sherlock." He complied. Once seated, Molly moved to assume a straddling position on top of Sherlock's cock, kissing him as she lowered herself onto him gently and slowly, only taking in a little of him at first. Then, after a few times letting herself adjust to him, she took the whole of him. Both of them made a loud groan of pleasure once he was fully inside.

"Molly? Are you sure you're alright? I thought I heard something," came the voice from the hallway outside.

Molly struggled to gain a voice. "Go away, Marcus."

"Martin," Sherlock said.

"No . . . um, Malcolm," Molly said to Sherlock. Then she called out loudly, "I mean, Malcolm. Really, no problem here."

Then she settled into a rhythm on top of Sherlock. Luckily for Sherlock, Molly came fairly quickly because he certainly couldn't last very long himself. When he finally did achieve his own release, only seconds after Molly sounded out her own orgasm, he smiled and said, "Oh, that's infinitely better than my own hand."

Molly laughed and then kissed him gently. "Oh Sherlock."

* * *

Sherlock stirred in his sleep. When he placed his arm over the space where Molly should be sleeping herself and found her gone, he startled awake. He cried out in panic. "Molly? Molly?"

She came round the corner back into the bedroom, wearing nothing but the Ramones shirt she'd removed from him earlier in the evening. Sherlock, relieved at the sight of her, made a mental note to apologize to Dr. Doyle that he wouldn't be getting his shirt back: Molly looked just too damn hot in it.

"Sherlock? I just had to go to the bathroom for a minute."

"Well, leave a note next time." She just shook her head at his silliness and climbed back into bed. "So . . . Molly Hooper," Sherlock said with a smirk.

"So . . . Sherlock Holmes," she said, smiling devilishly back at him.

"Would you amenable to doing that again?"

" _Now_? How can you have anything left after doing it three times already tonight?"

"I've been waiting a long time. That's a lot of frustration built up over the years. But, no, I didn't mean right this minute. I mean again, as in, again tomorrow night and the next night, and, well, at selected times throughout the days to follow?"

She looked at him sadly. "Sherlock, I'm scheduled to be extracted and moved within a week." Sherlock sat back against the headboard, suddenly jolted back to reality after several hours of bliss. Tears started to well up in Molly's eyes.

Sherlock sat there for a few seconds and then turned to her, looking serious and determined. "I'll come with you."

"What good will that do? It'll just mean a day or two more together and then you'll have to leave me wherever I am."

"No, I don't mean accompany you just for the journey. I mean go with you into hiding."

"Are you crazy?"

"No, I'm just in love."

"Sherlock," she said gently and kissed him.

"No, I mean it. I already have numerous fake identity documents. Very few additional preparations would need be done on my account."

"But your family and John and Rosie."

"My family and John would both want me to be happy and when I explain to them—they'll understand. John will especially understand. He would have done this for Mary."

"Sherlock," Molly explained with kindness in her voice, "I don't think you understand what's involved here. What would you do in a new country? If we're in hiding, you couldn't be a detective. You'd risk making news."

"I've been undercover before. I hid my identity."

"But Sherlock, that's when everyone thought you were dead. No one thought to be on the look-out for you. No one's going to believe it if we both go missing at the same time."

"I have advanced degrees in chemistry. I can work in a lab or perhaps get a position as a chemical engineer."

"Sherlock, can you really imagine yourself an anonymous chemist somewhere dithering around in a lab coat?"

"Now don't put down lab coats, you wouldn't believe the sexual fantasies I've had that involved you in your lab coat."

Molly laughed, but said, "Sherlock, be serious."

"I am. I'm completely serious."

"You yourself said not so long ago that you didn't think you could ever be happy being anything other than a detective."

"That was before I had you."

"It's one thing to say that now; it's another when you have to live year after year doing work you think is beneath you."

"It's no use, Molly Hooper. I've quite made up my mind and you know better than anyone how stubborn and unmovable I can be when once I've made up my mind."

"Yes, yes, I do," she said sadly.

"It'll be an adjustment, but I'll have you."

"Ok, if you say so, Sherlock." She seemed unconvinced.

"Good, so it's settled?"

"I know better than to argue with Sherlock Holmes."

"Excellent. I'll let Mycroft know first thing in the morning. I should make plans to visit my parents, John and Rosie, of course, and Mrs. Hudson, Greg. And my sister. In the condition Euros is in mentally, she might not even comprehend what I'm telling her, but she deserves to hear it from me that I may never be able to visit her again. I'm actually set to fly to Sherrinford later today, but I can reschedule it . . . "

"No, keep the appointment," she interrupted him. I actually have a trip planned for today and tomorrow to visit my mum and my brother and sister in Portsmouth to say my goodbyes to them."

"So I won't see you tonight?"

"No," Molly said and swallowed, frowning.

"It's fine," Sherlock said cheerfully. "We have years and years to be together."

"Yes, of course."

"So . . . since we'll not be together tonight, it might be good if we . . . " He trailed off and started kissing her neck.

"Sherlock!"

"I've years and years of sexual frustration to unload, Molly. Work with me here." Molly relented.


	27. Two Days Ago. Sherrinford Prison

**Two Days Ago. Sherrinford Prison**

Within only a minute of starting to play the violin portions of Rimsky-Korsakov's "Scheherazade," Euros joined him, as she always did. Together they recreated the dream-world-like fantasy of the piece, evoking notes of both sadness and exotic adventure. It was their only means of communication. Other than during their violin duets, Euros lived trapped within her own mind, not one word escaping her lips since being returned to Sherrinford almost nine months ago.

When the last lilting notes of their shared musical conversation came to an end, Sherlock needed to tell his sister why he'd possibly never be able to see her again, why even this limited emotional connection might be permanently severed. Not for the first time when it came to Euros, Sherlock thought: there but for the grace of something like God go I. What had kept him from becoming the psychopath Euros had become? What damage had she suffered that he had been spared? Was it merely broken synapses in her brain that were tethered more tightly in his own that had put Sherlock and Euros on such different paths?

Of course, these questions could never have answers, only hypotheses and conjecture. Sherlock's own self-preservational lie that he was a "high-functioning sociopath" was born out of his years of failure to make real, lasting friendships or develop romantic relationships. If he was a high-functioning sociopath, he told himself, it simply wasn't his fault. It wasn't lack of effort on his part at making human connections or something that could be addressed with psychotherapy since there was no treatment for sociopathy. It had been a convenient lie that protected him from the truth: that he was an awkward person who could be easily hurt by rejection.

Ironically, though, he thought to himself, it was precisely human connection that had likely kept him from the stark and lonely existence of someone like Euros. First Victor, then John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and, of course, Molly, all revealed him to be what he really was: a man with needs—for friendship, for love, and, as he finally conceded after years of self-denial, for sexual intimacy.

Placing his violin down for that last time, he took a deep breath and began his final goodbye to Euros. "Euros," he said, as that woman was now seated again and staring off into space, impassive, "I'm afraid this might be the last time I am able to come see you." Sherlock had thought he'd seen a slight flicker of recognition on her face, but it could well have been only his own imagination. He explained the whole sorted story, from Molly's initial receipt of the package to last night's revelation that he must go with Molly, that he simply did not wish to live without her, that she had indeed mattered most to him.

After completing his speech, he said to her, "I don't know what you saw, what you observed, that enabled you and no one else, including me, to see how much I was in love with Molly Hooper, but, for whatever else you are guilty of in this life, you are also responsible for that realization and, for that, I thank you, Euros. I don't know how much of what I'm saying is getting inside that extraordinary mind of yours, but I wanted you to know that, for that, I thank you." Then he added, sadly, "I must take your leave now."

Sherlock enclosed his violin in the case and turned to leave his sister, probably for the final time. Almost to the door, her heard her voice for the first time since her sadistic games had ended so many months ago.

"Irene Adler, aka 'The Woman,' born September 1st, 1981 in Warsaw, Poland to a German father and a Polish mother. Emigrated to the United Kingdom in 1987. Parents killed in an automobile accident two years later." Euros kept listing off the facts of Irene Adler's life like a computer would, with machine-like cold detachment as well. Sherlock looked at his sister with a mix of awe and curiosity. What was she doing, he wondered.

She continued with a list of recited facts, all of which Sherlock too knew by heart from the months of examining Adler's life with a microscope. But, once her recitation of Adler's basic biographical facts ended, her words became less comprehensible and Sherlock wondered if the effort to recall all those details from the catacombs of her mind had brought meaningless debris along with them.

"So God blessed the seventh day and hallowed it, because on it God rested from all the work that he had done in creation. Sundays in the Park with George. But, remember, mutually assured destruction only works if both sides believe the other capable of destroying the world."

Euros's apparent word salad had ended, leaving Sherlock confused and unable to tell if she had said something meaningful or something nonsensical. So, as he waited for his helicopter to take off from Sherrinford, he thought about her strange words.

Two references to Sunday, that can't be nothing, he thought. Sundays, Sundays. Is there anything special about Sundays in Irene Adler's life? She couldn't possibly be religious, Sherlock thought. As the helicopter soared, he searched his mind palace for all he could remember about her Sunday surveillance reports. _Nothing_. In fact, they proved the most useless of all days. On the second and third readings of the reports, he remembered resorting to skimming the notes on her Sunday activities— _because she never saw clients on that day._ "So God blessed the seventh day and hallowed it, because on it God rested from all the work that he had done in creation."

So she _had_ rested on Sunday. From what Sherlock knew of her activities from Monday through Saturday, doubtless she had needed a rest. Where did she go on Sundays and what did she do? Did she go to art museums, perhaps? Is that the reference to _Sundays in the Park with George_ —literally a reference to the painting "A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte" by Georges Seurat? No London museum exhibits it to his knowledge. No, it can't be that. He searched his mind palace once again. The Sunday surveillance reports only called up the vaguest memories. Damn you, Sherlock, why didn't you read the Sunday reports more carefully, he thought.

But then he remembered. The park. Not _a_ park, but multiple parks. Most often Green Park, which would make sense since it would have been the closest to her Belgravia home. But there had also been trips to Hyde Park, Regent's Park, St. James's Park, and other parks throughout the entirety of the city. Always on Sunday. So Euros was being literal when she said "Sundays in the Park," but then who was George, if she meant that literally as well? And what did the Cold War nuclear strategy of Mutually Assured Destruction have to do with any of this?

Sherlock's mind called up all of its reserve during the flight back to London to figure out the riddle Euros had laid out for him. By the time he'd landed, he thought he'd finally pieced together much of the puzzle. Once out of the helicopter, he phoned Mycroft immediately.

Instead of a greeting, Mycroft launched right into his brother's previous night's decision-making. "Sherlock, we have to talk about this reckless plan of yours to secret yourself away with Molly Hooper, I really . . . "

"Not now, Mycroft! I need a private plane immediately to go to New York. Within the hour, Mycroft. And I have some information I need your people to follow up on."

"What's this about?"

"The game, Mycroft, the game is back on again," Sherlock said, with obvious manic delight in his voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Scheherazade (from Wikipedia): The story goes that the King found out one day that his first wife was unfaithful to him. Therefore, he resolved to marry a new virgin each day as well as behead the previous day's wife, so that she would have no chance to be unfaithful to him. He had killed 1,000 such women by the time he was introduced to Scheherazade, the vizier's daughter. Against her father's wishes, Scheherazade volunteered to spend one night with the king. Once in the king's chambers, Scheherazade asked if she might bid one last farewell to her beloved sister, who had secretly been prepared to ask Scheherazade to tell a story during the long night. The king lay awake and listened with awe as Scheherazade told her first story. The night passed by, and Scheherazade stopped in the middle of the story. The king asked her to finish, but Scheherazade said there was no time, as dawn was breaking. So, the king spared her life for one day to finish the story the next night. The next night, Scheherazade finished the story and then began a second, even more exciting tale, which she again stopped halfway through at dawn. Again, the king spared her life for one more day so she could finish the second story. And so the king kept Scheherazade alive day by day, as he eagerly anticipated the finishing of the previous night's story. At the end of 1,001 nights, and 1,000 stories, Scheherazade told the king that she had no more tales to tell him. During these 1,001 nights, the king had fallen in love with Scheherazade. He spared her life, and made her his queen.
> 
> **I am by no means an expert on classical music, but Rimsky-Korsakov's "Scheherazade," which I discovered while playing a game of Civilization, believe it or not, is, to my mind, perhaps the most beautiful piece of music ever created.


	28. One Day Ago. The London Hotel, New York City

**One Day Ago. The London Hotel, New York City**

Sherlock dispensed with any ruses this time in his call to Gina Wilson's number. It was the middle of the night in New York City, a time when she would doubtless be plying her trade, so the voice mail picked up.

"Tell Irene Adler that Sherlock Holmes would like to speak to her at The London hotel, Room 1230. I'll be here all day."

At 7:30 pm, a knock at the door sounded and Sherlock steeled himself for the upcoming confrontation. When he opened the door, Adler looked triumphant and not a little smug. As she entered the room, she swiped her hand gently down Sherlock's cheek, a gesture of familiarity and tenderness that made the detective shrink backwards.

"Oh my dear Sherlock, you didn't need to provide me an escort back home, but it is such a lovely gesture. I must say I am a little surprised. There are still seven full days to the deadline. I had thought you wouldn't give up until the last possible hour."

"Sit down, Irene."

"Yes, I should think there are some guarantees in paperwork form that will need to be examined and signed." She sat down at the desk and watched as Sherlock pulled out not papers from his jacket pocket but rather his mobile phone. She knitted her brow in curiosity.

Sherlock placed the mobile phone down on the desk in front of her, the photo of a lovely ten-year-old girl displayed prominently on the screen of the phone. Upon seeing the photo, Adler drew a large intake of breath and her look changed from one of slight curiosity to one of instant fear.

"I believe you know this young girl as Georgiana Simon, the adopted daughter of George and Yvonne Simon of Belgravia, London. She's quite a beautiful girl, but, then again, she does carry fully half of your DNA, so beauty was probably never going to be an issue. If conscience is inheritable, however, that's something to worry about. Every Sunday when you lived in London, you'd forgo being lavishly paid for the whippings and nipple-twistings you'd visit upon the wealthy and instead enjoy a day in the park with Yvonne and her daughter. Except, while to the world Georgiana is Yvonne's daughter, to you, she is your daughter. And that is why you want to come back to England, to resume your relationship with her. That's also why, I imagine, you set the deadline for achieving your desired ends as such: her birthday is next week and you wanted to make sure you can be there for it."

Irene Adler had not looked up from the photo displayed on the desk since Sherlock began speaking. But now the phone had gone automatically dark and she finally looked up at the man she only moments ago thought she had bested. There were tears in her eyes.

Sherlock, apparently unmoved, continued, "To regain access to one that you love, you threatened to remove from my life the one that I love. So, because you determined the rules of this game— _not I_ —I am going to tell you what's going to happen if this game of yours continues." Here he stood up straight and looked her with all the defiance he could muster. "If anything happens to Molly Hooper, something commiserate will happen to Georgiana Simon."

"You're threatening the life of an innocent little girl?" Adler asked, equal parts indignant and horrified.

"You're hardly in a place to judge, considering you threatened the life of an innocent woman."

"You wouldn't. You're bluffing, Sherlock. You don't have it in you to kill a child."

At that, he nodded his head and began pacing in front of the woman. "Perhaps. Perhaps the Sherlock Holmes you see here may indeed not be able to do it. But, think Irene. Call to mind all those operas, those epic poems, classical novels, and Greek tragedies where some kind of extraordinary loss has been visited upon someone, a loss, for example, of an adored lover. Think of how many of them lose their minds, become someone unrecognizable, even to themselves, and end up committing horrific crimes in retaliation for their loss."

He stilled his pacing and once again resumed his pitiless gaze upon Adler. "Maybe that won't happen to me, though. Maybe my conscience is too strong. Then again, maybe it's not. Maybe the loss of Molly Hooper will push me to do the unthinkable. The question you need to ask yourself, Irene, is: can you live with the uncertainty."

Tears were spilling out of Irene Adler now. She attempted to wipe away her tears. "I should imagine that British agents are outside that door right now, ready to take me back to Britain to face punishment. But, if by any chance they are not, Sherlock, I know I have no right to ask, but I have to anyway, let me have a head start on them. Please, I beg of you. You'll never have to hear from me again. I . . . "

"Do shut up, Irene." She did. He continued, "This is what we are prepared to offer you: one week every six months, you will be allowed to travel to London, under strict government security, to see your daughter. At night, you will sleep in a government detention center and, when the week is done, you must depart immediately. If you abide by these rules and have no further incidents of assisting terrorists or blackmailing anyone _ever_ , you shall remain free from prosecution from the British government." Here he took out a piece of paper from his jacket pocket outlining this deal and continued, "Read and sign here, Irene. It's a better deal than you deserve."

* * *

His first call after Irene Adler left his hotel room was, of course, to Molly. She probably turned off her phone for the night because her voicemail picked up.

"Molly! Molly! I did it. I found Irene Adler's pressure point and brought her to heal. You're safe. You're really safe. We don't have to leave. Tell your family, everyone. You are not going anywhere. Ever. I love you. I love you so much."

Then he texted John and Mycroft with the news and requested that his chartered flight back to London be scheduled for as soon as possible. To say he was over the moon would have expressed only minimally his three-fold joy: his joy that Molly's life was safe, that they didn't need to live secret, anonymous lives in a country far away, and that he had triumphed once again—he had won the game.

And the key, the key to this entire case from beginning to end had been emotional connection. He had told Dr. Doyle in one of their sessions that he preferred motives such as greed, power, and revenge. Yet, nothing about this case intersected with those basic, comfortable catalysts for crime. This case had as its genesis a woman's emotional connection to her daughter. The woman's plan involved an attempt to exploit the emotional connections of a brother to a brother and a man to a woman. Even the key to the case's eventual solution came through emotional connections: Euros's clues came precisely because she desired even the small emotional connection afforded by Sherlock's regular visits to her.

For someone like Sherlock, for whom emotional connections always came with so much effort and so much fear of rejection and misunderstanding, this realization gave him something to think about if he were really going to be the great detective he had always dreamed of becoming.


	29. Present Day. Private Airstrip outside London

**Present Day. Private Airstrip outside London**

As the plane touched down at the small airstrip outside London, Sherlock could see two figures standing in the distance. Taxiing nearer, he made them out to be John and Mycroft—doubtless there to congratulate him on his latest triumph, Sherlock thought. But the one person he wanted to see the most was probably still on her way back from Portsmouth visiting family. With all this behind them, they could begin their lives together properly, without any clouds overhead or even glowering in the distance, threatening them.

And that's what it was: the beginning of a life together. For Sherlock knew that Molly would be the only woman in his life that could tempt him into such a relationship. If she decided one day to throw him over—an outcome any sane person would put all their money on—there would be no other women for Sherlock. Dr. Doyle might say such a contention was premature, but, on this, Sherlock finally knew his own mind. While most men would be horrified by the idea of only having had sex with one woman throughout their entire lifetime, Sherlock felt he could never desire a woman as he had Molly and would be perfectly content to have her be his only lover.

When the plane came to a complete stop and the door opened to allow him to disembark, he bounded down the stairs, a man that simply couldn't contain his excitement. He was so lost in his own sense of a new, boundless future that he didn't notice that the two men on the tarmac did not share his elation and looked instead as if attending a funeral.

"With a week to spare," Sherlock yelled joyfully at the two men. "And you two had all lost faith in me! Ok, I concede, I lost faith in myself there for a bit, but, alas I am triumphant once again. I . . . "

"Sherlock," John said gently, interrupting Sherlock's reverie. It was then that Sherlock at last noted the dour looks on both of their faces.

"Why the glum faces?" Sherlock asked, confused. "You received my messages, right? I won. I dominated the dominatrix. I . . . "

"Sherlock," John began again, "Molly's gone." Sherlock didn't seem to understand what the man was saying, so he looked at Mycroft, as if his brother could make sense of the strange, incomprehensible words coming out of his friend's mouth.

"She went into the bathroom at Waterloo Station," Mycroft explained. "Her guards waited ten minutes and, when she didn't emerge, they went in after her. In there, they found her discarded mobile phone and a large envelope filled with several letters. This one was addressed to you, Sherlock." Mycroft held out the letter addressed to Sherlock in Molly's hand. Sherlock looked at it as if it were a bomb. He didn't want to touch it. To touch it meant that the bizarre statements of John and Mycroft were true. And they simply couldn't be. They didn't make sense. He had won. What were these insane men on about?

Eventually he took the letter and opened it up, having no idea what it could possibly say that would make any sense of what was happening.

* * *

Dear Sherlock,

By the time you read this letter I will be gone.

Several weeks ago, when Mycroft and John told me the whole story of Irene Adler's plan and then John warned me of the potential leak inside the government, I decided my best chance for long-term survival was if I engineered my own departure and if no one but myself knew my ultimate destination.

I'm so sorry to be doing this to you, but, in time, you'll no doubt realize that it is for the best and, in fact, you may indeed already be breathing a sigh of relief.

I know it was nothing but a mixture of duty and pity that was behind your declaration of love to me last night as well as behind your decision to come with me into hiding. When you take a case, you own every part of it and take everything about it upon yourself, including ultimate responsibility for the outcome. Believing that you failed me and that you were somehow responsible for Irene Adler being alive, you stepped in to do what you felt was your duty—to protect me for the rest of my life if need be.

For that, I am so very grateful. While I know you have genuine love for me as a friend, I cannot pretend that your love in any way equals the love I have always felt and still do feel for you.

Last night was simultaneously one of the greatest nights of my life and the most bittersweet. I wanted to be with you so for long that I didn't stop what happened, even though I knew I should have. I took advantage of your desire to convince me that you really loved me in that way and wanted to be with me. For my own part, I wanted you so much, I just didn't think or care to think about why this was all happening in the moment. I just wanted to feel you inside me.

But deep down I knew.

And your offer to go with me into hiding showed me even more the depth of your sense of duty and how kind and good a man you really are, Sherlock Holmes. But, as I told you, no matter what you'd choose to do in life, you'd be extraordinary. There is no living a life of anonymous drudgery for you.

Eventually even your sense of duty and right would not be strong enough to hide your boredom and resentment at me for forcing you into a relationship and a life you never asked for or wanted.

And I will not be the ruin of you. I love you too much for that.

Please do not reproach yourself for not being able to return the love I have for you or believe that you could have said or done anything to alter this outcome.

Please take care of my little Rosie. Tell her how much her Godmother cares for her, even far, far away. And take care of yourself Sherlock Holmes. I won't forgive you if you don't.

Your friend and admirer always,

Molly

* * *

At first Sherlock just swayed a little. Then he collapsed onto the runway. Both and John and Mycroft rushed over to him, but he waved them off angrily. He struggled to regain his feet. Once fully standing, he made as if he was going to rip Molly's letter to pieces, but found that he couldn't.

"Sherlock, I promise I will do everything I can to find her," Mycroft tried to assure him. He wasn't even sure Sherlock heard him. "I'll never stop looking for her. I promise."

Sherlock regained a little of his senses. "She couldn't have done this alone. She would have needed help." Sherlock paced on the tarmac, considering this.

"Sherlock," John said, "let's get you home."

"No!" Sherlock yelled, "Who the fuck helped her?" He resumed his pacing and then stopped abruptly. "Martin, Milton, Marcus, no, no—Malcolm."

"Who's Malcolm?" John asked.

"One of her Secret Service guards. He cares for her. He helped her, I'm sure of it. We need to talk to him," Sherlock said, frantic.

"Sherlock . . . " Mycroft began.

"Now, Mycroft! The longer we wait, the farther away she gets. I want to talk to Malcolm now!"

Mycroft took out his mobile phone and dialed. "Yes, is there a man named Malcolm assigned to Molly Hooper's security detail?" He waited for the answer. "Ah, yes, alright. Have him in my office in half an hour."

Appeased, Sherlock followed the two other men into Mycroft's car and drove toward the city and Mycroft's office, looking desperately for a way to track Molly.

* * *

A veteran who served three tours of duty in Afghanistan and Iraq, Malcolm Hawkins cut a large, imposing figure. But Sherlock, who had experienced first hand the man's awesome brute strength would not be cowed by him this day.

"Molly Hooper. Where is she?" Mycroft asked him.

"I have no idea, sir. I work the third-shift on her security detail. I believe she disappeared on what would have been the first shift's time with her."

"Cut the shit, Malcolm," Sherlock yelled at him. "I know you helped her get away from the security at Waterloo Station. Who else would know better how they work and how to get away without their knowing than one of their own?" Hawkins said nothing to this, giving away nothing by his expressions. "Doubtless she asked you because you had formed a sort of friendship," Sherlock continued. "You care for her, don't you, Malcolm?" Here Sherlock saw the man swallow, a sign that he was right. "You wanted her safe and she explained to you why she couldn't trust the British government to relocate her themselves, isn't that right?"

Still the man said nothing. Sherlock continued, "It's alright now, though—she's safe. She's not in any danger here or anywhere else. The crisis has passed. She doesn't need to relocate." At this news, Malcolm blinked and looked at Sherlock, then at Mycroft.

Mycroft backed his brother up. "He's telling the truth, Hawkins. And so you should too, if want dismissal from your job to be the worst thing you'll be facing. Now, where is Dr. Hooper?"

"I don't know," Malcolm said, finally. "All I did was help her escape Waterloo Station. That's all. She said she could take care of everything else. She said her life depended upon as few people as possible knowing where she'd be going. I did what I thought was right."

Mycroft collapsed into his chair and Sherlock slumped away from the man, both of them realizing that the task of finding Molly Hooper had just become infinitely more difficult than they had thought.

"You can be assured, Hawkins, that you will never work for any branch of the British government ever again," Mycroft said angrily. "You may not even be able to get a job at a stockboy at Tesco."

"Don't be ridiculous, Mycroft," chided Sherlock, "You have here the rarest of creatures: an honorable man in the government. Don't fire him; give him a promotion and a raise. You shall not easily find many such men. He did his duty to the utmost: he kept Molly safe, even if it meant jeopardizing his job. Don't be stupid and lose this one, Mycroft."


	30. Four Months Later. Alice Springs Hospital, Alice Springs, Australia

**Four Months Later. Alice Springs Hospital, Alice Springs, Australia**

Nearing the end of her shift at Alice Springs Hospital, Dr. Katherine Eliot was advised by one of the nurses that she had one more patient left to see today.

"He complains of chest pains, but he won't let us run any tests until he sees a doctor. Real pain the ass, this guy," the nurse complained.

Oh, brilliant, Dr. Eliot thought, just what I need to end my day. So she steeled herself for the potentially difficult patient and entered the examination room. Upon seeing the tall man with piercing blue eyes staring at her, she felt like all the air had left her body and a mixture of fear and longing came like a wave upon her.

"You're out of danger, Dr. Eliot," Sherlock said immediately, sounding out her alias for effect. "Well, let me clarify. Irene Adler does not now nor will she ever pose a threat to you again. However, you are still in danger of me, as I might well yet strangle you with my bare hands." The woman calling herself Katherine Eliot breathed a sigh of relief at Sherlock's announcement. Sherlock continued, anger spilling out with every word he spoke, "In fact, had you stayed one more day in England, you would have known that."

"I'm sorry, Sherlock . . . "

"Well," Sherlock interrupted her, "are we going to get to my examination?"

"Um, excuse me?" The question had thrown the woman formerly known as Molly Hooper for a loop.

"I've been having chest pains, but, the thing is, I'm not sure it isn't psychosomatic. Because their arrival happened to coincide with a woman taking my virginity and then immediately running off to the far ends of the earth away from me. Let me tell you, one's ego takes quite a hit from such behavior."

"Sherlock . . . "

"Molly."

"I, um . . . I'm off in a few minutes. I live nearby."

"I know where you live."

"Of course you do. Do you want to come with me and have a chat?"

"No, I flew all the way down here—commercial no less—just for a check-up from a bloody pathologist and some marmite on toast."

"Ok, I'll just be a few. Meet you out by the little greenery at the west entrance to the hospital? Ten, fifteen minutes at most."

"Can I trust you not to run away again?"

She blushed. "Sherlock, I . . . "

"Yes, I'll be there," he said, interrupting her again.

* * *

They didn't say much in the car together from the hospital to Molly's house. Sherlock seemed to be taking in the town pitilessly. Upon arriving at Molly's house, he noted to himself that it was probably four times larger than the flat she had occupied in London. She invited him in and offered him a cup of tea. He accepted with more of a grunt than a yes.

When they were seated at her kitchen table, Molly began, "So, how did . . . "

Once again, Sherlock didn't allow Molly to finish her sentence, but instead launched into how he had finally defeated Irene Adler. The told the story in clipped tones, indicating to Molly that he was still quite angry.

"It only took you four months to find me, I guess I'm not as clever as thought I was," Molly said, getting out her first full sentence since first seeing Sherlock over an hour ago.

"Oh no," Sherlock assured her, "you were quite clever indeed. Now it's my turn to ask you: how did you pull it off? We know about Malcolm's role, but the rest?"

"Malcolm, oh I so hated getting him involved. I should imagine he was in a lot of trouble."

"Nothing of the sort. He's doing quite well."

"Really? That's . . . that's wonderful, I was worried . . . "

"On with your story," Sherlock barked.

"Yes, well, as you know, the biggest problem is always the documents needed," Molly explained. "Back in grammar school, my brother was best friends with someone who made fake identification cards so that we could drink in pubs before we turned eighteen. He was so good, he made a career of it. He was able to forge most of what I needed. Another friend, from medical school, became a hospital administrator in India. She helped me with my fake medical credentials. So, how did you end up finding me?"

"Well, we had an intelligence expert from MI-6 work with the best mathematician I know—namely my mother—to come up with a very complicated algorithm that included data on British emigration, medical licensures and applications, recent hires at hospitals and labs, travel records, etc."

"Ah and it led you here."

"No, actually, all the algorithm did was narrow our search parameters down enough so that we'd likely find you within eight to ten years. Then, about three days ago, I picked up the dog-eared copy of _A Town Like Alice_ you left in my flat. I looked at recent hires and real estate contracts in Alice Springs and here you are and here we are. You didn't choose a town like Alice, you choose Alice itself."

"Always clever, Sherlock."

"Yes, well, now that that is out of the way . . . " Sherlock said, as he pulled out a weathered and many times refolded letter from his pocket, " . . . now I'd like to discuss this big steaming pile of horseshit!" Molly drew in a breath, realizing that he was holding the letter she had written him four months ago. "Sometimes I get it out and read it to remind myself how utterly stupid seemingly brilliant people can be."

"Sherlock, I . . . "

"No, no, I've been brooding over the words on this letter for four fucking months. It's my turn, Molly Hooper." His eyes burned into hers with ferocity. "A mixture of duty and pity? _Duty and pity?_ I don't know what's more infuriating: how much you belittle and minimize the sincerity of my feelings or how little you value yourself. If anyone said or even insinuated half the things you say about yourself, I'd throttle him. I am not some teenage boy who impregnated a girl and offered her marriage out of a sense of duty or at the end of shotgun. I am a grown man and, while I'll readily admit that it took a long time for me to know my own heart and even longer to admit and act upon what I wanted, I was completely sincere in declaring my love for you. I wanted you, Molly. And, what's more, I still want you."

At that declaration, Molly started to cry. Sherlock took some pieces of paper out of his pocket and laid them on the table in front of her. "This is one of two tickets back to London scheduled for tomorrow. I have the other one. Mycroft, of course, purchased two standard coach fares, but I stole his credit card number and upgraded to first class. He'll be furious, which is an added bonus." Molly laughed at this through her tears. "I'm not going to drag you back to London against your will, Molly. It's up to you. You can come back to your life, if you want it. And you can have me if you still want me. But know that I absolutely want you and have for a very long time. It's your choice." His speech over, Sherlock quickly stood and walked to the door, opening it and leaving without once looking back. Molly could not help but break down and cry.

But Molly's solitary tears were not to be long endured. A few seconds later, Sherlock came rushing back into her house toward her, still seated at the kitchen table. When he reached her, he lifted her up from her chair and sat her atop the kitchen table. He kissed her passionately, again and again. When he finally stopped to catch his breath, he said, "I'm not leaving this damn country without tasting you." He pulled down her pants and panties roughly then lowered himself to her groin, placing open-mouth kisses everywhere he could before he finally caught her center between his lips and started to alternatively lick and massage it. Then he inserted two fingers inside her. When he quickly made her come, he licked at the juices coming from her until she came down fully from her orgasm. She laid back on the table, trying to get control of her senses once more when she felt him enter her and she began to feel her body climb once more towards orgasm as he delivered thrust after thrust, until both of them collapsed in exhaustion, enjoying the waves of pleasure coursing through their bodies.

* * *

"If the idea was to give me a choice, you weren't playing fair," Molly told Sherlock, minutes after they completed their reunion properly.

"How so?" Sherlock asked.

"How can I possibly want to stay here after you did that?"

"That's not playing unfairly. Playing unfairly would be show you pictures of the completely disorganized mess your lab at St. Bart's is in right now."

"What . . . what happened to it?"

"Well, I was angry with you and Peter, your replacement, got tired of fighting with me all the time and putting things back the way they were." Molly laughed. "Besides, it should hardly be a choice at all. I mean, this place is awful: endless sun, wide open spaces, clean air, low crime rate. Frankly, I don't know how you can stand it."

"Oh, shut up. It's lovely and you know it. I even have my own pool. I could never, ever have that in London."

"A pool?" Sherlock sounded intrigued.

"Yes, do you want to go for a swim in it?"

"No, but I would like to fuck you in it."

"Sherlock!"

"What can I say? You created a monster."


	31. One Month Later. 221B Baker Street

**One Month Later. 221B Baker Street**

Molly and John rushed over to 221B Baker Street after receiving Mrs. Hudson's frantic calls saying that Sherlock had gone completely mad. The two arrived together in a panic to find Mrs. Hudson beside herself with concern.

"What's wrong?" Molly asked her.

"It's Sherlock. He's gone crazy. He went out early this morning and came back with bags and bags of clothing from the thrift store. Said he got them all in a bin marked for sale by the pound. I thought it was quite irregular, but, you know, with Sherlock . . . "

"You called us over here because Sherlock bought cheap used clothes?" John asked, annoyed.

"No, no, that's not it. I went up then to make some tea and he was ripping up all the clothes like a madman. I think he's finally lost it, poor man. I thought having Molly back would buy us some time before a final meltdown, but alas . . . "

John and Molly looked at each other in confusion and then headed up the stairs to see just what Sherlock was doing that had his landlady so upset. It was just as Mrs. Hudson had said. He was cutting apart dozens of items of clothing and discarding them haphazardly on the floor of the kitchen.

"Um . . . Sherlock, what are you doing?" Molly asked.

Sherlock looked up to see them for the first time. "Oh good, you two are here. You can help."

"Help with what?" John asked, nervously.

"Cutting all the tags out of all of the these items of clothing."

John questioned him further, "And why would we do that?"

"I need lots of individual letters from the labels."

"For what, exactly?" John asked.

"For a thank you note," Sherlock said in a tone of voice that suggested that what he said should be obvious to anyone with half a brain.

"For a thank you note? Ok, Molly you check the bedroom for dismembered cadavers and I'll check the freezer for body parts."

"Ha ha. Very funny. Now sit down and help me, I will explain as we work." They looked at each other dubiously, but Molly and John sat down at the table nonetheless. "Oh and since you two can stitch up bodies and such, you can probably sew, right?" The two of them looked at each other even more confused than ever.

* * *

The Doyles' housekeeper/home health worker Anna answered the door and found Sherlock Holmes carrying a shoe box, flanked by a woman and a man.

"Hello, may I speak to Dr. Emily Doyle. Tell her Sherlock Holmes is here, if you would," Sherlock said to the woman. In a minute, Emily Doyle came around the corner in her wheelchair to greet them at the doorway.

"Mr. Holmes?" Emily asked.

"Yes, we met a number of months ago, if you recall."

"Of course, come in, how could I forget you? It was so exciting to meet the real Sherlock Holmes."

"May my friends come in as well?"

"Yes, of course. But I should tell you that Arthur won't be home for several more hours."

"Excellent."

"How so?" Emily asked.

"Dr. Doyle, may I first present to you my friends? This is someone you know of: Dr. John Watson."

"Oh, Dr. Watson. I've heard many wonderful things about you from my husband."

John went up to her and shook her outstretched hand. "It's a pleasure to finally meet Arthur's wife after so many years of him going on and on about you."

"I'm a huge fan of your blog, Dr. Watson. I make Arthur read it to me all the time."

"Ah, at least you know it's my blog and not Sherlock's. Most people don't seem to realize that." He looked cuttingly at Sherlock.

"That reminds me, John," Sherlock interjected, "we have to have a chat about how you present me in the blog." Sherlock then turned to his other side. "And this, Dr. Doyle, is my wife Molly Hooper."

Molly too went up to shake Dr. Doyle's hand. "I'm not his wife, yet," she said to the woman. And then she turned to Sherlock, annoyed. "We're not married yet, Sherlock!"

"Well, whose fault is that?" Sherlock said, accusingly.

"Yours! I don't need a formal wedding, I told you that a million times."

"Oh sure, why don't you just put a dagger through my mother's heart while you're at it," Sherlock said. Molly just shook her head in annoyance.

Now Dr. Doyle seemed really confused. "Umm, what is it that I can do for you all?"

"We require access to your husband's clothing."

"Excuse me?" Now Emily was really confused.

* * *

When her husband finally did come home later that evening, Emily Doyle couldn't hide her feelings of amusement and joy and Arthur knew she had some kind of news to tell him.

"Sherlock Holmes came by this afternoon with two friends of his, one of which was John Watson," she explained.

"Oh dear. I'm sorry I missed them. What did they want?"

"To give you this." She handed him an envelope with a letter inside that he read immediately.

* * *

Dear Dr. Doyle,

As you know, I am not very good at expressing my feelings directly. I tend to express myself through actions and hope that those actions are interpreted correctly. That hasn't always worked out for the best. I'm trying to be better at that, but there is one action that John, Molly, and I will be undertaking this afternoon that I hope will express, in some small way, my gratitude for the help you have given me over the last six months.

Sewn into all the labels on your clothing and onto the bottom of your socks are now letters from "A" to "M." When you are choosing which clothing to wear in the morning, you can now consult these letters to determine whether or not they match. Clothing with the letter A sewn into them match with other As, and Bs match with Bs, and so forth. Many items of clothing have multiple letters on them, so that ABH will match with an HKL because they have the letter H in common. Perhaps when your daughter is once again on leave from university, she can help you do the same with new clothing you purchase.

Thank you for making see that my life had many more possibilities than I thought. When I think now of my theory of entropy as it pertains to relationships, I'm ashamed to admit how faulty my analogy was. I perceived romantic love as this endless attempt to regain the feeling of warmth and comfort one has upon first entering a fresh bath. What I didn't understand was how easy it would be to keep it warm and lovely indefinitely if the right person is with you in the bath.

My sincerest thanks,

Sherlock Holmes

PS. I've never said "It's elementary, my dear Watson" in my life. John is just a drama queen.

* * *

**_FINIS_ **


	32. Timeline of Events and Chapters in "In Session"

**Timeline of Events and Chapters for "In Session"**

Twelve Weeks Ago. St. Bart's Pathology Lab . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Chapter 2

Twelve Weeks Ago. St. Bart's Pathology Lab . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Chapter 4

Eleven Weeks and Six Days Ago. Somewhere in Chelsea . . . . . . . . . . . . Chapter 5

Eleven Weeks and Six Days Ago. Outside 221B Baker Street . . . . . . . . . Chapter 7

Eleven Weeks and Six Days Ago. 221B Baker Street . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Chapter 8

Eleven Weeks and Five Days Ago. 221B Baker Street . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Chapter 9

Eleven Weeks and Three Days Ago. Gatwick International Airport . . . . . . Chapter 11

Eleven Weeks and Three Days Ago. 221B Baker Street . . . . . . . . . . . . . Chapter 12

Eleven Weeks and Two Days Ago. 221B Baker Street . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Chapter 13

Eleven Weeks and One Day Ago. Somewhere in Belgravia . . . . . . . . . . . . Chapter 14

Eleven Weeks and One Day Ago. Somewhere over the Atlantic . . . . . . . . Chapter 15

An Interlude: Three Days with Mycroft and Molly . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Chapter 16

Eleven Weeks Ago. 19th Precinct, Manhattan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Chapter 17

Ten Weeks and Six Days Ago. Mycroft's Office . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Chapter 19

Ten Weeks and Four Days Ago. 221B Baker Street . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Chapter 20

Ten Weeks and Three Days Ago. 221B Baker Street . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Chapter 21

Ten Weeks Ago. 221B Baker Street . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Chapter 22

Nine Weeks and Four Days Ago. 221B Baker Street . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Chapter 23

Nine Weeks and Three Days Ago. Molly's Flat . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Chapter 24

Session #1. Six Weeks Ago from the Present . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Chapter 1

Session #2. Five Weeks Ago . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Chapter 3

Session #3. Four Weeks Ago . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Chapter 6

_Missed Session: Three Weeks Ago_

Session #4: Two Weeks Ago . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Chapter 10

Session #5: One Week Ago . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Chapter 18

Three Days Ago. Dr. Arthur Doyle's House, Marylebone . . . . . . . . . . . . . Chapter 25

Three Days Ago. Molly's Flat . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Chapter 26

Two Days Ago. Sherrinford Prison . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Chapter 27

One Day Ago. The London Hotel, New York City . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Chapter 28

Present Day. Private Airstrip outside London . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Chapter 29

_The Deadline_

Four Months Later. Alice Springs Hospital, Alice Springs, Australia . . . . . . Chapter 30

One Month Later. 221B Baker Street . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Chapter 31

**Author's Note:**

> **Reviews are things of beauty and keep the demons away and the muses close by.
> 
> **There are two timelines running in this story: one is the timeline of the therapy sessions and the other is the timeline of the events that lead to Sherlock being in therapy.
> 
> **After the story is completed, I will post a timeline of events for anyone confused or who wants to go back and re-read the chapters in chronological order.
> 
> **Right now, I'm a little more than half way done writing this fiction. I hope you'll like the first 12 chapters and come back for my daily updates.


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